Legacy VI
by ruth baulding
Summary: *continuation of Lineage AU* Book 6: Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and his new apprentice are sent on a diplomatic mission to a burgeoning empire just past Republic boundaries, where they discover the swiftly fraying edges of their own civilization - and the limits of their loyalties. Chapter 10: Going Native
1. Chapter 1

**Legacy VI**

_**Chapter 1 : Ghost Story**_

* * *

Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, silently chiding himself for the sheer audacity of his present undertaking, rocked back on his heels and squinted at the disparate elements of the dilemma set before him. A bead of perspiration meandered its way toward his loosely folded tunic collars; the furrow deepening between his brows stood out in marked testament to a concentration beyond ordinary beings' capacity. He had - in the course of his eventful and precocious career, in the span of a lifetime thus far numbering but twenty three standard years - disabled subatomic fusion bombs upon the brink of detonation, piloted dying starships through ion storms and to safe landings amid catastrophic atmosphere conditions, negotiated peace between the most barbaric and inveterately rapacious of warring sects, defied impossible odds, fought the Dark Side incarnate, faced down his own extinction and the loss of all he held dear. But this – this was something else entirely.

"Blast it," he muttered, cradling the disconsolate bundle of roots and drooping stems in one hand while he regarded the lump of aromatic potting soil packed into the ceramplast pot with dubious mien.

Did one simply _thrust_ the unfortunate seedling into the muck, willy-nilly? Or was there a proper _method,_ a subtle alignment of its privy parts with the gravitational axis of the planet, the line of the ecliptic, the magnetic poles, or some other occult concatenation of influences? Surely the latter. He frowned, recalling his own brief tenure in the Agri-Corps, ransacking memory for some clue, some helpful prompting of tradition. He came up blank, realizing that his duties during that regrettable adolescent interlude had been primarily punitive in nature, such as toting heavy loads and shoveling odiferous mountains of fertilizer. He rubbed his free hand against a chin disconcertingly textured by chestnut bristle, and sighed. As Master Chakora Seva said, _he who calculates a mountain's height has not thereby scaled even the smallest cliff._

" I am truly sorry if my ignorance causes you harm," he assured the wilting sprout, and carefully deposited its delicate underside in the rounded cavity created a moment ago by his right thumb. Tucking the creature up to its proverbial chin in soft, mineral laden earth, and tweaking the angle of its two timidly unfurling leaves, he paused and contemplated his handiwork. The plant, true to its nature, gave little indication whether it approved of its new mooring or was in any sort of discomfort. The young Jedi frowned yet more deeply, feeling certain that Qui-Gon Jinn, revered sage of the Living Force, would immediately have been able to discern whether the tremulous botanical patient was _happy_ or not.

If plants could be happy, that is.

A trickling of clean water upon the spartan domicile's newest resident, and the rites of welcoming seemed complete. The young Jedi stood. It was an uncommonly hot day for temperate Coruscant; the noonday sun pouring through the balcony window beat a radiant cacophony upon floor and walls, resounding and echoing through every corner of the common area. A wave of one hand and a nudge of the Force darkened the self-tinting glass to near opacity, providing instant relief from the assault.

Peace reigned in undisputed splendor for a full five minutes – at which time the much-abused front door rattled into its pocket with a asthmatic wheezing of pressure pistons, simultaneous with the cyclonic arrival of the apartment's younger occupant.

"I'm back," Anakin Skywalker proclaimed, loudly and quite unnecessarily.

"You don't say."

The tow-headed junior padawan callously marooned his holotexts upon the nearest horizontal surface – which happened to be a worn meditation cushion – and proceeded to squat down before the recent addition. "Isn't that pot kinda humongous for that _chibi_ little plant?"

Obi-Wan flicked a few offending granules from his crisp and immaculate tabards. "It will grow, Force willing."

"Huh. It doesn't look very impressive now. Just saying."

"Appearances can be deceiving, my young friend. I once met an unassuming floral specimen that swiftly attained the status of full-blown carnivorous menace under Master Qui-Gon's overindulgent care."

"Wizard! Is this one gonna have teeth and tentacles and stuff too?"

The boy's mentor ran a hand through short auburn hair. "It is a _mandrangea bean_ seedling, Anakin."

"Aw." Instantly losing all interest in the new arrival, the youngling launched without preamble into his customary report on the day's happenings. In the past six months, this rambling debriefing had established itself as part of their quotidian routine as master and apprentice. Though the recitation often devolved into a litany of complaints or an irrelevant technical excursus, it also served as touchstone and diagnostic tool, a window into the boy's mercuric and complex soul – and occasionally an early warning system for trouble stirred up in the otherwise placid Temple community by his blithely volatile presence.

"….so then Master Li said that Ruus T'chello's account of the Teth assault on Archipageus' moons is completely bogus."

Obi-Wan cocked one eyebrow, sharply. "He _what?"_

Delighted at having elicited such raw disdain from his teacher, Anakin pressed the point. "He said the Teth royal chronicler is unreliable. Because of the ghosts."

The young Knight shrugged into his voluminous cloak. "Local superstition explained events through the lens of the prevailing culture; but simply because the indigenous legend is included in the account, it does not follow that the entire narrative is spurious."

The boy trotted along merrily at his heels as they entered the concourse and made for a lift at the corridor's far end. "But you don't believe in _ghosts_ , do you, Master?"

"Besides," Obi-Wan snorted, indignantly, "the bit about the _ghosts_ was appended by T'Chello's amanuensis. Perhaps Master Li should check his sources. A Jedi should be as scrupulous in scholarship as he is in 'saber form."

"So are you gonna challenge him to a duel, to settle who's right about it?" A gleam of anticipatory glee softened twin orbs of kiln-glazed blue.

The boy was doomed to disappointment. "No," Obi-Wan responded repressively, snapping the li ft doors closed with a flick of his wrist. "I'm going to rebut his absurd assertions quite thoroughly, over mid-meal. And then send you on a mission of mercy."

"Huh?"

"Dispelling the shadows of ignorance is one of the Five Great Compassions. I'll let you have the humble joy of elevating Master Li's spiritual state. Stars know he's overdue for a bit of enlightening. "

* * *

"The assault on Archipegeus' moons was ill advised in the extreme," Obi-Wan informed his attentive protégé. "The forty-third emperor was entering his dotage, and had waxed arrogant and overambitious. The naval fleet's wild success in the Rims – or what would later be termed the Rims – led him into a false confidence. Archipegeus is located inside the Sluissi nebula; the Teth shipwrights had no idea against what they were contending. When the assault force was wrecked on the outlying satellites after the first solar storm, Pon-Jo's governor sent a task force to collect any survivors."

Anakin nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, we covered all that. But then it says that the men returned empty-handed, reporting that the enemy ships had been utterly destroyed and that there were no survivors." He poked futilely at his plate with a pair of unwieldy eating sticks, mouth twisted to one side in concentration.

The young Knight corrected his awkward grip. "I think that is indeed what happened."

Anakin dropped a lump of arroz and grunted in acute frustration. "Who _eats_ with these stupid chupa-scuzzo things anyway?"

His companion deftly quartered a succulent scallop and vegetable roll and favored his struggling apprentice with a bland look. "Slow down. Stop trying so hard."

"I'm gonna starve to death, Master!"

"I don't think so. The Archipegean ships did indeed return, with a report of no survivors, and well documented proof that their Teth adversaries' vessels were floating scrap."

Anakin skewered a large hunk of fish with one of his sticks and set to devouring it with predatory relish. "Sure, but it's _chintzo_ to say that ghosts of the dead guys showed up inside the city a day later and took hostages and burned stuff and basically staged a coup and looted and pillaged and then got away. That's why Master Li said the historical vernacity is doubtful."

"_Veracity._ And Master Li lacks the requisite imagination to be a successful strategist. Which is why he is a healer and not a batte fleet commander."

The tow-headed boy cheated on the last bit of fish, using his fingers and then licking them clean as surreptitiously as possible. "But…._ghosts?"_ he insisted. "That's impossible."

"One can't blame the natives for a colorful explication. It saved face, at the very least. Supernatural interlopers are less shameful an affliction than simply having been _duped."_

A servitor droid burbled by, repulsors softly humming. "I need a spoon, " Anakin told it. "Please," he added, as an afterthought.

"What _actually_ transpired," his teacher continued, letting the blatant act of mutiny slide, "is this: when the Archipegean scouts arrived on the tertiary satellite, they discovered a small band of survivors. These men made a tactical retreat into the Denashi ridge, which is highly suited to guerilla warfare. The Archipegeans were trained to fight in organized legions and stood no chance against Teth commandos in an irregular environment. The desperate Teth party dispatched all of them, stole their uniforms and weapons, overpowered the remaining crew, and commandeered their ships. They then returned to the main moon –"

Anakin bounced in his seat, warming to the topic. "And pretended to be the other guys and reported no survivors and got let right into the city – like, maybe even into the military headquarters – and then they like attacked form within and did all that other rugged stuff! That's totally _sick."_

"Victory from the ashes of defeat, in some measure." Obi-Wan confiscated his pupil's utensil the moment the droid delivered it, and handed over his own eating sticks. "You may use _these_ and nothing but _these."_

Sighing audibly, the padawan fiddled with the resented implements, turning them this way and that between his slender fingers. "But how do you know, Master? Is there some other book that says that?"

"…well, no."

"But then how do you _know?"_

The young Knight flashed the most fleeting of wolfish grins. "Because that's what _I_ would have done."

His very young apprentice beamed. "And this is what _I_ would have done," he declared, snapping the two thin sticks in half and fanning them into a serviceable four-pronged claw in one hand. He scooped the mangled remnants of his meal up and consumed them with triumphant elan, not bothering to wait for approval or permission.

* * *

They exited the refectory side by side, heading for the upper level classrooms and adjoining lecture halls. Clusters of older initiates, groups of younglings shepherded by attentive chaperones, a stray master or two drifted across the Temple's spacious byways, the ubiquitous Jedi robes and white or earth-colored tunics a harmonious medley, so many tranquil leaves floating upon a wide river's currents.

"Wish I could go to _your_ lecture instead of these _baby_ ones," Anakin grumbled.

"You wouldn't find exogenous diplomatic relations nearly as interesting in theory as they are in practice," the young Knight assured his disgruntled charge. "No lightsabers whatsoever, in the classroom version."

The boy's nose scrunched in disappointment. "I could do the senior padawan level," he insisted. "My coursework is too _easy."_

"Your recent examination results don't seem to testify to that statement."

"Only cause I'm bored." They paused beneath the vaulted archway of a connecting vestibule.

Obi-Wan laid a steadying hand upon his apprentice's shoulder. The stubby learner's braid barely brushed the top of his knuckles, witness to the brevity of their relationship, to the novelty of the arrangement for both parties involved. "Anakin. If you can make it to the end of this tenday without occasioning any of your instructors distress, or reason to level further complaints in my direction, then I shall have Garen take you out in the fighters. "

It took a firm pressure to keep the child from displaying inappropriate enthusiasm in the public concourse.

"Really? Promise?"

"I do not have to –"

"Promise anything, yeah yeah I know. But really truly, Master?"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No!" Anakin grinned. "I can do it. Only one more day. And I'm being choobazzi super good this time, I swear it. I haven't even _spoken_ to that_ sleemo_ uptight snitch – not even once this whole time and he's in _all_ my sections."

"Initiate Olin is not deserving of your defamation, even when he is not present. _Especially_ when he is not present."

Wilting beneath his mentor's stern gaze, Anakin shifted weight and fidgeted in place. "Okay okay… I gotta go now, I guess."

Obi-Wan released his captive into the wild, watching the boy's slight frame scurry off to join a bevy of young initiates still under the close supervision of a clan-master. The cream-clad group admitted the newcomer to their ranks with a degree of polite aloofness; Anakin's sudden introduction to the Temple community at eight years of age, and his nearly simultaneous acquisition of the coveted _padawan _status made him at once an object of intense curiosity and inchoate envy.

Not that Jedi felt envy. Properly speaking, anyway. Grown-up, fully trained Jedi, at least.

Rubbing thoughtfully at his chin, and releasing tension in a single vexed puff of breath, he turned on his heel and flowed away upon his own errand, temporarily leaving Anakin to navigate the difficult waters of _schooling_ as he saw fit. _Sink or swim_ was not a universally salutary pedagogical method, but it had its uses, and would surely prove harmless in the short run? At the moment he had other urgent business to attend.

He needed to seek out Master Qui-Gon's sage counsel on the subject of mandrangea bean seedlings, for a start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Legacy VI**

_**Chapter 2: Voice of Experience**_

* * *

The arboretum path beat a wandering circuit along the artificial river's burbling length, ducked beneath the stately yarbanna grotto's mottled arches, and emerged behind a swell of miniature terraces close to the vast enclosing dome's outer edge. The steps of the graveled path were by now as familiar as breathing; Obi-Wan trod them without hesitation, coursing along the tranquil pathway with all the assurance of a mountain yarrix skipping its way to its remote home amid the peaks.

The battered door opened at an imperious wave of his hand; the courtesy of knocking was irrelevant here, for he had projected his coming into the Force's broad currents and could even now feel the radiant warmth of welcome extended back to him through those same impalpable channels, Qui-Gon's quasi-paternal benediction filling the plenum with a steady gong-note of acceptance, of ready invitation.

The young Knight spilled over the sagging threshold with an insouciant greeting ready upon the tip of his tongue – only to stop dead in his tracks, struck dumb in surprise.

"Masters," he stammered.

His former mentor's ascetical abode was crammed with visitors – _three_ visitors to be precise, but ones of such intensity in the Force that the tiny space seemed to encompass an impossible quaternary of stars, a cramped constellation of authority and power.

"Forgive the interruption," he added, regaining some of his poise and executing a deeply respectful bow.

"Obi-Wan. Come in." Qui-Gon's eyes were bracketed by smile-lines, their limpid grey depths twinkling with private amusement.

Jedi Masters Yan Dooku and Mace Windu extended open hands in greeting, silently summoning him to join the circle of revered elders.

"Sit, young one. Stand not gawking all afternoon," old Yoda harrumphed, peremptorily rapping the compacted clay floor to his immediate left with one blunt claw.

"Yes, Master." The half-muttered response served to acknowledge all four at once; still feeling as though he had fumbled a landing while attempting a simple Ataru aerial maneuver, he knelt down sedately beside the ancient Grandmaster, his cloak pooling in luxurious folds beneath him.

Qui-Gon meanwhile set a fifth bowl among the four delicate ceramic artisan pieces already laid on a _kito_ mat between them. The aromatic incense of brewing _sapir_ firstleaf coiled slyly toward the moisture-stained ceiling, a diaphanous banner twisting upward from the antique Chandrilan ebony porcelain pot, a priceless treasure which hitherto had abided in solitude upon Master Dooku's trophy shelves. The youngest member of the party caught the aging Sentinel's eye briefly, and was rewarded with an inscrutable shrug.

"A housewarming gift, of sorts," Qui-Gon succinctly explained, answering his former pupil's unspoken question. "I am honored to have the keeping of it."

"I still say that thing belongs in the Archives collection," Master Windu rumbled, shifting in place. His expressive mouth tightened at one corner, signifying a round disapproval banked and muted by the demands of collegiality.

"Lump of clay," Yoda snorted. "Handful of gross matter, is it. Unworthy of such attention." He squinted at the sculpted masterpiece, a shrewd light in his gimlet eyes warning of an intent to smash the offending item into dust as an object lesson.

Obi-Wan made a diplomatic intervention, leaning forward to assume the task of serving, a role strictly prescribed by tradition to the most junior member of any such ritual gathering. "Let me spare you the trouble, Master." A brief wink at Qui-Gon, to whom the obligation would by default have fallen, accompanied by the most demure and _perfect_ execution of proper ceremonial form, every controlled motion rigidly conforming to rubric.

Dooku was likely the only one of the gathered masters to fully appreciate such _art;_ he accepted his bowl with characteristically aristocratic gravitas. "As I was saying," he resumed the broken thread of conversation, "the Senate's histrionics are irrelevant to the problem. _Imperium_, and the implications thereof, are affairs far beyond the ken of our beleaguered legislative friends."

"I'm not so sure," his Korun colleague demurred. "I think the lure of _power_ is what piques their interest here."

"And the siren call of _wealth,"_ Qui-Gon averred, pensively sampling the exquisite brew. "Greed is always a powerful motivator, especially where politicians are involved."

The silver haired Jedi waved this aside. "The Trade Federation and Banking Guilds have remained entirely neutral; and I very much doubt the petty squabblers in the rotunda would recognize true power if it slapped them in the collective face. No…. it is _fear_ that sets them into such a frenzy. The Republic's leaders look upon this self-proclaimed warlord, and are afflicted by the same tremulous envy with which the decrepit must always regard brazen vitality."

"Hmmm," the wizened Grandmaster observed. "Equally violent and arrogant was the Republic, in early centuries. Barbaric would we call it now , perhaps."

"Perhaps," Mace hesitantly concurred. He rotated his tea bowl in one broad hand, strong fingers wrapped about the fragile porcelain shell with a grace belied by his stature and powerful build. "But that doesn't imply that we should tolerate such _barbarity_ on our borders now."

The diminutive Jedi chuffed, long ears waggling and gargoylish features rumpling further. "Know not enough to make _any_ judgment, do we."

Floundering, Obi-Wan seized upon the ensuing coda to ask the obvious question. "With all due respect, Masters…. Of what are we speaking?"

A humorous frisson sparked between the senior Jedi. Qui-Gon's brows twitched upward, mischievously. "Why, the last scion of the Teth dynastic line, of course."

His former protégé blinked and frowned. "But the succession died out nearly seven hundred –"

"Apparently _not,"_ Mace cut across him. "I need not remind you that this last cycle has seen the resurrection of a certain _other_ historical lineage, as well. "

_Sith._ The name hung unspoken in the fragrant air, seeming to meld into the shadows at day's periphery.

Yan Dooku set his empty bowl in its ritual place. "A warlord styling himself Kuub'lai Akan has sent formal request for Republic emissaries to visit his putative _empire_, in the name of establishing peaceful relations with his neighbors. The matter has occasioned some debate within the Senate. "

"And here," Qui-Gon slyly appended.

Reeling, Obi-Wan strove to maintain his calm façade. "Surely they will appoint ambassadors? "

"Confidence in the wisdom of politicians is misplaced," Dooku drawled, "But in this case their collective folly may guide them serendipitously aright. The alluring prospect of _protected trade_ past the Rims is sure to tantalize."

The young Knight scowled. "They think a principality outside the Republic will help stabilize our borders?"

The Korun master scoffed. "Hope springs eternal."

"We should still send someone," his younger counterpart insisted, enthusiasm kindling visibly. "If only to determine the scope of this Akan's resources and ambition. It would be disastrous were one of the Rim factions to ally itself with an established power base like Old Teth once presented."

"Agreed," Yoda grunted. "Investigate, we should. Tread cautiously. Afford to create enmity outside itself, the Republic cannot."

Mace nodded, soberly. "It is imperative that we send Jedi along with the Chancellor's delegation. There is something _not right_ about a suddenly resurrected imperial line. It reeks of conspiracy."

"Treason, more likely," Dooku corrected him, brows contracted into a grim line.

_But who in stars' name would have the sheer power and wealth to patronize such an endeavor?_ The implications were… frightening. Even though _there is no fear._

Qui-Gon tactfully set about preparing a second infusion.

* * *

"Well. _You've_ taken to hobnobbing with the high and mighty of late," Obi-Wan observed, when the triumvirate of senior Jedi had, at last, taken its collective leave.

Qui-Gon's silver threaded mane slid over one powerful shoulder as he stooped to collect the tea-things, the slightest of hesitations still visible – to his guest's hypervigilant eye – in his otherwise graceful movements. The near-fatal wound dealt to him on Tatooine by the escaped Sith warrior had never _fully_ healed. Even now its minute traces lingered, a reminder of both mortality and the fragile web of stress-fractures that textured their present peace.

The Republic was crumbling, slowly, from within. Chaos clamored on the edges of civilization; the Dark gibbered hungrily at the edges of sanity.

The tall Jedi master met his former pupil's gaze, a wry light In his eyes. "I've grown accustomed to incessant chatter over the years. In your absence….." An eloquent gesture finished the thought.

Obi-Wan snorted. "I wouldn't be surprised if you _ended up_ on the Council, after all is said and done, Master."

An amused lift of the brows.

"Truly, Qui-Gon."

"If you think that, then you surely have much still to learn."

The younger man folded his legs up beneath him, perching upon a wide mediation cushion in the tiny hovel's corner. "We've long ago established that; and I am daily afforded piquant reminders of its truth."

"Welcome to the joys of teaching." Qui-Gon settled opposite, with a long sigh. "How is diplomatics progressing?"

"Fine." The newly appointed lecturer waved an airy hand. "The senior padawans hang upon my every word. I am amply familiar with the subject matter, thanks to my, ah…. _Informative_ upbringing," – he paused for the obligatory half-grimace from his audience- "and they are extraordinarily docile, at least compared to what I remember of upper level seminars."

"You are a riveting expositor."

"Hardly. I'm afraid there's a bit of _hero worship_ in the mix."Obi-Wan shoved a thick fall of hair back from his forehead with one hand, frowning faintly. "It's vexing, actually. But I haven't any idea how to ameliorate it."

"Let them be. There are far worse objects of adulation."

Uncomfortable with such praise, the younger Jedi shifted in place, rubbing absently at his chin. "I think Master Yoda maneuvered me into this as some sort of test."

Qui-Gon chuckled. " It was my suggestion, actually. I anticipated how difficult it would be for you to remain In Temple without a substantial distraction. It has been an unusually quiet six-month by your standards, you must admit."

"Anakin is making great strides."

A comfortable silence, in which the tall man merely waited, patiently courting the revelation of whatever insecurity or frustration had brought his own former padawan to visit.

"….Except when he's wreaking havoc and sparking outrage, of course." A sharp exclamation mark of disapproval appeared between the young Knight's brows. "I've got a _problem child_ on my hands."

"Ah. My condolences," Qui-Gon replied, dryly. "….But who better to sponsor an up-and-coming hellion than a retired _brat?"_

Humor predictably smoothed the rough edges of anxiety. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "I cherish your wisdom, my master."

"Good. You ought to. However – I sense that some other more pressing concern has brought you to my door. Speak up."

"Oh. Yes." His visitor straightened his imperceptibly slumping posture, Force aura brightening with the prospect of solving a discrete and reassuringly particular problem. "I have a horticultural question."

Qui-Gon blinked in surprise.

Ignoring the hundredfold irksome implications of this silent reaction, Obi-Wan pressed onward in professionally crisp tones. "I've transplanted a small mandrangea seedling. But.. well – I wonder whether I've done it correctly. With regard to position and soil quality and so forth."

A smile valiantly attempted to hide itself behind the Jedi master's grave mien, but was doomed to failure; Qui-Gon's eyes crinkled merrily at the corners, betraying sprightly inner mirth. "It is a _seed,_Obi-Wan – not advanced hyperdimensional astrophysics."

The subject of this jesting admonition let his gaze slide sideways, disgruntled. "We are not _all_ specially attuned to the Living Force –"

"We are not all prone to criminally analytic introspection, you mean." The smile broadened into a rippling chuckle.

"I simply wanted to be _certain."_

Qui-Gon forcibly composed himself into a semblance of earnest sympathy. "There are few things _certain_ about growing young things. But I think you may rest in confidence that your seedling will continue to prosper so long as you maintain such devotion to its well-being….- You didn't use silica-based fertilizer, though, did you?"

"Of course not!" his friend scoffed. "'I'm not a complete chosski."

"And you checked the alkalinity of the water supply?"

"I –"

"And, of course, it needs a full-exposure circadian light pattern, preferably east facing. The balcony will do nicely, except you'll require a net to filter ambient pollutants. Leaf-rot sets in easily on Coruscant. Also, there is an infestation of _meebs_ in the outside arboretum. Make sure you don't import pests."

"I have a padawan."

Qui-Gon shook a finger in warning. "Then you'll have to employ antimicrobial dust regularly. Don't neglect to supplement the soil with a vitamin mixture; Master Pertha can help you formulate the appropriate blend. "

Obi-Wan's mouth thinned into a wry line. "I'm beginning to think I was better off without the advice."

"Oh – and make sure you sing to it every night. For an hour."

The young Knight stared, speechless – and then broke into a soft chuckle, one quickly joined by Qui-Gon's richly melodic laugh. Mischief frolicked in the Force, gently dissolving into concord.

"Sola – I cede. The lesson is duly noted. "

The senior Jedi gripped his companion's shoulder, warmth kindling behind his eyes. "You'll do fine. Need I truly repeat myself again? _Relax. Think. Use the Force."_

Obi-Wan dipped his head, in gracious surrender. "Yes, Master."


	3. Chapter 3

**Legacy 6**

_**Chapter 3: Problem Child**_

* * *

Anoon "Iron Hand" Bondara chuckled sardonically, rubbing down his hands, arms, and torso with a liberal coating of chalk dust. "You haven't thought better of this yet, eh?"

Imitating his companion's example, Obi-Wan braced himself for the coming contest, neatly folding tunics and sash upon one of the low benches at the dojo practice arena's perimeter. His 'saber he laid atop the small pile with reverence. "Of course not."

"You always were a reckless whelp, Kenobi."

The young Knight quirked a smile, turning to face his adversary as he removed both boots and flexed bare toes against the floor's smooth matting. "And we all know an akk returns to his vomit."

The Temple weapons-master barked with laughter. "Upstart wretch. I'll give you something to howl about." Burly, every compacted muscle veined and knotted and decorated with coarse silver hair and fine scar lines from decades of intensive combat practice in every imaginable pan-galactic martial discipline, Master Bondara presented a fairly intimidating challenge to any of his students or peers. He folded his hands and executed the formal bow before any sparring match, his younger counterpart following suit.

"Best one of one?' Obi-Wan suggested.

"Until you whine for mercy." They circled cautiously, barefoot and stripped to the waist, dusted down to impede the opponent's grappling hold, postures supple and relaxed, the Force taut with coiled energy. "Now remember," the senior Jedi added, slipping habitually into teaching mode, "without a weapon – without a _saber-_ your focus is opposite that of armed combat."

His diligent pupil nodded. _The Force is the blade of the heart; the Jedi is the crystal of the Force. _ These principles informed the Jedi philosophy of _unarmed_ conflict, a specialist's discipline chosen by few as their area of mastery. The lightsaber and its powerful valence, both symbolic and historic, shaped the traditional path of study , informing it from beginning to end. But Anoon Bondara's expertise extended even to the most obscure limits, making him a versatile and formidable foe – the most exacting of instr_uctors,_ and one secretly delighted to have an eager acolyte even in temporary capacity.

With an ear-splitting _kiai _ shrill enough to disrupt even a deep centering trance, the master launched into his opening attack. The Force spattered like foam atop a tempest-churned sea, thundered like an avalanche pounding headlong down virgin slopes. The two opponents closed hand to hand, throwing punches and kicks at the speed of a hummer's frantic wingbeats, blocking and savagely returning the failed strkes, their bodies twisting and dancing across the mat, feet beating a fierce rhythm as they jumped, lunged, centered and retreated, their breath coming in a duet of grunts and sharp exhalations as the pace of their contest demanded ever more power and concentration.

A single visitor made entrance to the practice room, an umber-clad shadow lurking demurely at the arena's periphery. Too engrossed In their playful warfare to greet this newcomer, the two Jedi occupying the salle's light-flooded center blithely carried on, until Master Bondara came in under his foe's guard and locked them in a grappling hold. Hands slid over chalked skin, striving to gain a firm anchor; shoulder to shoulder they pushed against one another like a pair of yoked nerfs, feet slippiing and muscles straining, the Force roiling about them as each sought to use its influence to upset the other's balance.

The visitor pursed her lips and upon the hard bench.

A moment later, the weapons-master heaved his opponent bodily over one shoulder and sent him crashing to the mat with a shout of triumph. His next strike went wide as the young Jedi writhed out of harm's way, adder-like, seizing the older man's ankle and bringing him toppling down beside him. They fell upon one another again, a wrestling match unequaled except in the swamps of Dagobah where primordial reptiles strove for mastery against one another. Strikes slammed into the mats inches from heads, ribs, groins; the two men rolled apart and sprang to their feet in unison, salt moisture now carving rivers and tributaries through the chalk upon their skin. Anoon Bondara pounced like a hungry colwar, carrying them both off the mat's edge; Obi-Wan rolled with the blow, planting his foot against his foe's sternum even as they turned head over heels. The older of the pair slammed hard into the plastered wall, leaving a hairline fracture in the white coating; his young opponent slid into the empty benches not far away, scattering them like frightened birds and yelping as his shoulder came up hard against the opposite wall.

The weaponsmaster gripped at his side; the young Knight rolled over and grinned through a wheezing chuckle.

"Sola, sola, sola!" He waved a pacific hand, stumbling to his feet and slicking back drenched hair from his forehead.

But Master Bondara grimaced expressively. "No, no – I yield, you ruffian. I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

Obi-Wan felt gingerly along his jawline, and a dozen other places where a strident _lesson_ had been received in the course of the last quarter hour. "I think _I'm _ too old for this sort of thing," he panted, limping forward to execute a somewhat cramped bow.

Their solitary witness found her feet. "_Both_ of you are far past the appropriate age for such immoderate and unseemly tussling . Shame on you – Jedi are keepers of the peace, not petty brigands!"

Master Bondara was the first to recover his equilibrium, meeting this sharp admonition with diplomatic polish. "Sifa," he greeted their aggravated guest. "Forgive my distraction. A training exercise. May I be of assistance?"

Sifa Ko-La, an elderly Graan clan-mistress of stern mien and sterner principles, drew up all three eyestalks in a rigidly affronted line. "Actually, " she sniffed, "I crave a word with Master Obi-Wan." The honorific was weighted with infinitesimal disdain.

The subject of this request hastily toweled himself off and fastened the ties of his inner tunic. "Of course, Master Sifa. I am at your disposal."

Triply rheumy eyes squinted balefully down upon him. "Yes," the Graan Jedi addressed him, for all the world as though she were calling some errant youngling out upon the carpet for disrespect," I think it is high time we had a private conversation regarding your _padawan."_

The young Knight glanced apologetically downward at his disheveled appearance. "If you will be so kind – "

"There is no time for that," Master Sifa cut across his reply. " I have already absented myself from my duties long enough. I pray you will indulge me?"

With an irrational flutter of apprehension in his belly, and a single wistful glance at the shower room's entrance, Obi-Wan nodded his acquiescence. Anoon Bondara caught his eye, winked broadly, and sallied away – his rolling gait carrying him out of earshot and therefore out of _helpful_ range at a remarkably brisk pace.

"Shall we?" the implacable clan-mistress said, imperiously leading the way out.

Her victim hastily pulled on his boots and sauntered after her, his cloak and remaining clothing rolled in ball beneath one arm, 'saber hastily clipped to his waistband and slapping smartly against his thigh with each stride.

The ancient Jedi tucked broad-fingered hands deep into opposite sleeves and addressed the concourse directly ahead. "May I remind you that not _all_ the honored denizens of this Temple are raised in the unorthodox manner peculiar to _Dragon Clan._ The younglings under _my_ care, for instance, are not encouraged to voice exception to their elders' dictates, nor to settle trifling disputes by means of belligerent contests."

Troon Palo's boisterous crew was by no means allowed such ill-disciplined behavior, either, but Obi-Wan was diplomat enough not to embroil himself in debate. "I would by no means criticize your pedagogical methods, Master."

A soft, almost bovine, snort. "I'm afraid I find myself in a position to criticize _yours._ Your apprentice has occasioned repeated and significant distress to one of my charges. The hostility between the two of them has amplified into an explicit rivalry. And since the provocation continues unabated, I can only assume that you are in willful ignorance of its existence."

Nettled, the young master raised his chin and deliberately smoothed his tone. "If you are referring to the difficulties between Anakin and Ferus Olin, I am quite aware – "

"In which case, you are _negligent."_

Obi-Wan came to a full stop, bringing the disapproving Graan up short beside him. "With due respect, Master, the discipline of my padawan is a matter of prerogative, and pertains _exclusively_ to me. "

But Sifa merely shook her head, deep lines upon her ochre-toned skin taking on the immutability of carven rock. "_Not_ when it impinges upon the welfare of _my_ students. May I remind you, _Master_ Kenobi, that there are those in this community with _many_ decades' superior experience to your own? The education of younglings is not undertaken in a _vacuum._ Like it or not, whether or not the fact is amenable to his own preferences, your student exists in relation to _all_ the other Jedi under this roof. " She thrust one blunt-tipped finger at the arched ceiling above. "And must learn to comport himself with dignity, respect, and restraint. _That_ should already have been learned, in the _crèche."_

Anakin, of course, had been reared a _slave_ on a backworld, without advantage of proper education, enculturation in the Jedi tradition, benefit of equally talented peers or supportive mentors besides his mother – not to mention basic securities like food and reliable shelter. The boy's master bristled inwardly. "And when," he politely inquired, "was the Code amended to advocate compassion only under ideal circumstances?"

The older Jedi's nostrils flared as she released a puff of acute vexation; her spine rammed into a vertical line. "I see where the child has learned his habit of insolence; if you are unable to resolve the matter privately, then I must submit a formal grievance to the Council."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth; _another_ confrontation with the Temple's higher authorities was _not _ on his personal agenda for Anakin's training. "I am sure a private discussion with both younglings would be beneficial…. Perhaps I might act as mediary between them?"

Master Sifa relaxed fractionally, sensing a partial victory. "This evening," came the terse reply. "I will expect you _promptly_ at seventh bell."

* * *

"So who won?" Anakin innocently asked, kicking both feet rapidly against the meditation cushion's curved edge.

Obi-Wan wearily rubbed at the base of his skull. "_Winning _is not the objective of martial training; we've already explored this concept a dozen times, and – "

"Yeah, yeah, I _know,_Master, but did you beat the stuffing out of Master Bondara, like you said you were gonna?"

"I made no such threat or prognostication."

"I bet you won. " _thump thumpthump thumpthump thump….._ the furniture was standing well in the way of succumbing to the fate so eagerly predicated upon Anoon Bondara. A sharp look and a curt gesture stilled the energetic staccato. Anakin sullenly folded himself into lotus posture.

"It was a draw. We didn't finish the contest."

"Aw. Well, can I watch next time? 'Cause this class rotation's almost done and then I'll have more time!"

"Perhaps." Obi-Wan rummaged about for tea; surely the headache thrumming behind his eyes called for immediate succor. And he could use a distraction.

"You seem kinda edgy," the boy observed, characteristically shrewd and disarming. "I'm not in trouble with the other masters again, am I?"

The young Knight drew a hand over his face. "…Ferus Olin."

Is protégé had the good grace to shrink back into himself, fingers of one hand truculently unraveling a loose thread along his sleeve's hem. "Oh."

"Yes: _oh."_ There was no tea worthy of the name in his personal supplies. Obi-Wan settled for a graceful collapse upon the opposite cushion, the one formerly reserved for Qui-Gon's use. It creaked beneath his weight, bespeaking a lifetime of long-suffering service in the cause of Jedi serenity. "In fact, we are going to speak with him tonight, privately. This… dispute, or whatever it is – do not interrupt me, Padawan – needs to come to a swift end. Rivalry is not permitted, nor resentment. We cannot be keepers of the peace of we fail to live in harmony even with our fellow Jedi."

Anakin looked straight through him. "Master Qui-Gon sir told me about Bruck Chun."

Stunned, Obi-Wan opened and then shut his mouth.

"He said you used to _duel _with him and fight and stuff. All the time, even after he told you not to."

"The relevant lesson being – "

"And he said he thought he was gonna have to _really punish_ you to make sure it didn't happen again. Like a _whipping, _ or something."

Obi-Wan held up a hand, warning his impertinent student to desist.

"Only then Bruck Chun _died,_ so it wasn't a problem anymore. And he says you wept at the funeral."

It was difficult to suppress the hot flush rising in his face; more problematic still to determine whether the casual dissemination of his personal details, or the subtle undermining of his authority, was the more irksome facet of this revelation.

Anakin twisted his hands together, agitatedly. "So maybe you understand? And this might be similar?"

Force help him, he was _not _ to be so easily played – by his padawan _or_ his former mentor. "Don't count on it," he advised, more trenchantly than he intended. "Ferus is not going oblige you with an early demise; and I am not _nearly_ as patient as Master Qui-Gon."

The boy squirmed in place. "Yes, Master. Sorry, Master."

"Get your cloak. We have an appointment to keep."


	4. Chapter 4

**Legacy VI**

_**Chapter 4: A Private Word**_

* * *

Ferus Olin was a fetching child, by anyone's conventional standards. Neatly groomed, especially for a male youngling of such tender years, possessed of pleasant, well-proportioned features, and radiating a sincere desire to _please,_ he was the very picture of mannerly and demure youth. The Force clearly _resonated_ about him, too – he was strong with it, but not hampered by the counterweight of volatile temper or brooding disposition. He would doubtlessly attract a dozen or more offers of apprenticeship well before he reached the critical age of thirteen. He was patiently waiting for his visitors in the small parlor adjacent to his clan dormitory, Sifa Ko-La in attendance beside him.

Obi-Wan noticed with a strange pang of …. something… that the boy did not _kick, _ nor fidget, nor chatter, nor sulk.

Nor roll his eyes heavenward in exasperation at the first glimpse of his rival, as Anakin most certainly did the moment they crossed the threshold.

"The Force is _everywhere,_" Obi-Wan informed his padawan, in a growling undertone. "Not _up."_

"You do the same thing all the time," the boy protested.

But there was no time to issue further reprimand; they were within earshot and making a formal bow in the next moment.

The clan mistress hastened to make introductions, though none were needed except that between Obi-Wan and Ferus. The latter person gawped awestruck at the young Knight, eyes coming to rest – predictably enough – upon the gleaming 'saber hilt at his belt.

"Did you really kill a Sith?" he demanded without preamble, brows forming a sharp line of outrage.

"No." Obi-Wan crossed his arms, casting a curious and admonitory frown at his own student.

Anakin merely glowered.

"Liar," Ferus accused him.

"Am not! I said he _blitzed_ a Sith. He cut off the _sleemo's_ arm."

"There's no such thing as a Sith," the other boy declared, firmly. "Everybody knows that."

"Enough!" Master Sifa stepped between the warring factions, taking either boy by a shoulder and steering them none too gently onto the padded benches to either side. "We are here to resolve this matter in a dignified manner. I am sure that Master Obi-Wan agrees that braggadocio and aggression have no proper place in a learning environment." She fixed the subject of this assertion with a three-fold glare, daring him to fall short of stated expectations.

Kicking himself inwardly, Obi-Wan settled grimly upon the bench between the two disputants, falling into diplomatic mode with the ease of long habit. "Indeed not. But the love of truth is always welcome… and I think both of you younglings feel honorbound to defend it. Am I right?"

Two tight, quasi-belligerent nods answered his simple query. Ferus Olin stared right down Anakin's double-barreled blue gaze without flinching, evidence of a warrior's fierce spirit, if not the polish and poise of a full fledged Jedi. The boy had _guts,_ certainly.

Better to start on familiar ground. "Anakin. I take it you have made several assertions which Initiate Olin finds dubious."

"I'm not a liar!"

"I did not say you were. You claim veracity for your statements on what basis? Having been eye witness to certain events?"

"Yeah. I saw it with my own eyes. _Nobody _ calls me a liar," he added, mouth thinning.

"And you, Olin?"

"I know he's wrong, and making it up. Because his stories contradict _everything_ we've learned. He thinks he know s more than all the masters in the Temple!"

"Well at least I've been somewhere else besides this Temple in my whole life! You've never been _anywhere," _Anakin fumed.

"You don't even know what you're talking about! You act like a senior padawan and all you've ever been is a slave! You should be _grateful_ to be here, not insulting the people who _saved_ you from-"

Obi-Wan seized Anakin by the tunic collars as he threw himself bodily at the provocateur. "Padawan!" he barked, slamming the command against his irate apprentice's mental shields, bringing the boy up gasping and shaking.

The elderly Graan looked on, scowling in disgust.

Maintaining a precautionary grip on his angry protégé, the young Knight turned to Ferus. "Your perspective is understandable," he told the boy, with perfect calm. "Perhaps in the future, if you have cause to doubt Anakin's statements, you could bring your concerns to Master Sifa, or one of the masters. I would be happy to speak to the matter also."

The dark-haired lad nodded, wide eyes still locked on Anakin's reddening face.

"Why are you taking his side?" Anakin exploded, trying to writhe free. "I'm _not_ a liar! Just tell him he's _wrong!"_

"Our objective here is not to establish a victor; it is to seek peace and understanding."

"But he's _wrong!_ And if you're trying to make peace with him then you're _wrong too!"_ The furious padawan spat these last impassioned words at his mentor with flashing eyes and bared teeth.

Master Sifa surged to her feet, appalled. "For stars' sake!"

There was pushing boundaries, and then there was throwing one's self headlong past the limits of a master's considerable patience. Obi-Wan had the miscreant pinned in an incontrovertible Force grip and had propelled him onto his feet and out the door in three thudding heartbeats.

In the empty corridor, Anakin's spitfire rebellion instantly melted into despair heavily laced with intimidation. As though intent upon finishing the job thoroughly, he compounded his shocking display of disrespect by bursting into hot tears. "Don't blitz me!" he pleaded. "Master, please!"

"You're going to wish I had blitzed you," his teacher threatened, wrestling his own unexpected eruption of _emotion_ under control. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._

Rivulets ran freely down Anakin's cheeks. "You took his side!" he bawled. "He called me a liar and you didn't tell him he's wrong and I don't want peace and understanding I want him to know he's _wrong!"_

Sifa Ko La thrust her wrinkled head into the hall. "I presume you will deal with your apprentice in appropriate fashion?" she inquired, imperiously. "Now that matters have been _clarified."_

"You have my word," Obi-Wan grunted, jaw clenched.

"Hmmmph." The enigmatic reply was followed by the hush of pistons as the door sealed them off from the presumptive innocents beyond.

"I hate it here!" Anakin hissed between clenched teeth.

Temper stirred perilously close to the surface of self-control; Obi-Wan did not bother to soften his tongue's acidic adge. "If you think you hate it now, just wait till you get back to quarters, my little friend."

* * *

Chancellor Valorum was looking his age, Mace Windu thought – though naturally he did not voice this unprejudiced evaluation of the Republic's most emblematically important and least functionally powerful dignitary.

"Master Jedi," the soft-spoken, aristocratic politician greeted them. "My gratitude. It is very late for such a meeting."

Stumping along beside his Korun colleague, Master Yoda merely grunted a curt acknowledgement and heaved himself into one of the luxurious velvetar-upholstered chairs . "Inconclusive, was Senate session today," he remarked, ears waggling.

Valorum sighed, smoothing the front of his expensive but austerely tailored robe. "Indeed. This … request from beyond our borders has sparked the usual degree of controversy. Every constituency and partisan alliance is eager to send emissaries ; if we accommodated them all, the ambassadorial party would number in the _hundreds,_ if not more. And that is not including Banking Clan and Trade Federation representatives. None of the systems is content to appoint only a few, nor can compromise easily be reached, I fear."

Mace exhaled. He could have _predicted_ that outcome. It had been nearly a decade since the legislative body had actually passed an effective resolution. "If you go over their heads," he observed, bypassing all the tedious explanations and excuses which would ordinarily preface such _frank_ discussion, "They will have a conniption."

The Supreme Chancellor nodded, lowering himself into the seat opposite. "I have referred the matter to a subcommittee, tasked with the selection of a balanced and well qualified diplomatic consulate." He folded elegant hands. "I do not expect any decision to be reached inside the next six-month, at least."

Yoda caught Mace's eye. "Wish us to send Jedi ahead of official delegation, you do."

Valorum spread his hands. "We need information. The Republic cannot afford to wait for our internecine squabbles to be settled before we send an answer…. And as protector of the Republic…"

"To authorize private intelligence mission, you wish."

"I am sure you perceive the need for absolute discretion," the beleaguered Chancellor added, posture faintly supplicatory.

"Hhhmmmph." The ancient grandmaster neatly encapsulated the complex web of objections foremost on both Jedi masters' minds.

Mace steepled his fingers, uneasy with the implications. "You know the Order will not act in a manner subversive to the democratic structure of our commonwealth."

Valorum's face fell, color rising in his hollowing cheeks. "I would never overstep my authority in such manner," he hastened to assure his two advisors. "I merely wish to convey to the High Council my tacit approval should the Order wish to investigate _independently,_ in accord with its own prerogatives."

Silence fell , piling in heavy drifts against the walls of custom, of precedent and law.

At last, Yoda seized his gimer stick and wriggled to the floor. "Understand one another, we do," he chuffed. "Late it is; your rest, you need, Supreme Chancellor."

"More than you know," the weary man admitted. "Thank you again."

"We come to serve." Mace spoke for both Jedi; they bowed and departed, walking side by side along the hushed corridor, footfalls muffled by sumptuous carpet.

"Send someone we must," Yoda decided, hunching along with head jutted forward and white hair bobbing to the rhythm of his halting gait. "Too delicate is balance of power in Rims. Delay, we will not."

* * *

The ten thousand star systems traced out the immutable complexity of their knot, a ceaseless carillon of lights, of bodies fashioned of gross matter, luminous with unsullied fire. The astro-map's orbital calculator had been enabled by its present user; as the planets whirled dervish-like about their suns, an invisible hand scribed out the course of their past and future in glimmering cords of green, yellow, blue circle upon circle, spiraling and interlacing– a geometry so immense, so _perfect,_ so double and triple reticulated, that it rendered the observer vertiginous.

"I knew I would find you here," he remarked, casting his eyes down from the giddying spectacle and addressing the dark chamber's single brooding occupant.

Obi-Wan's face was highlighted by a hundred moving constellations, reflected points of light sliding over furrowed brow and sharply dimpled chin, well-defined features and pair of eyes that had been old even barely past childhood. They remained fixed upon the exquisite cosmic dance now, not deigning to meet the visitor's quiet gaze. "Am I so predictable?" he said, tightly.

Qui-Gon waved the reeling universe to a standstill with one hand, leaning against the observation rail beside his friend and former pupil. "No…. but you'll need to try harder than that, if you wish to shield from me. You've been projecting fairly loudly all evening. Obviously something is amiss."

The younger Jedi raised one brow in an ironic arch. "Stars forbid I be afforded any _privacy."_

Such jibes served as opening salute and formal challenge, as they both understood. The Jedi master replied in kind, resigning himself to the inevitable battle of wills and words. "Likewise, may I be spared any corresponding measure of _courtesy."_

Opening formalities having thus been completed, they fell to with alacrity, striking and parrying in a pattern as familiar as breathing, the prescribed cadence of a _kata,_ of long mutual practice.

"Courtesy is reciprocal; as is respect. I have never and will never enumerate _your_ flaws and shortcomings to my padawan, Qui-Gon. Why you should regale him with tales of _my_ youthful folly is beyond me, if you are so devoted to such virtues."

The tall man cocked his head to one side. " Every mistake is a lesson. You know this."

"My mistakes are _my_ lessons; you were once fond of saying _that we cannot tread another's Path, nor learn from any but our own."_

"Ah – but _teacher, student, the Force: these are one."_

"How odd. Anakin and I seem to have picked up a fourth wheel somewhere along the way."

"There was a time when you humbly begged counsel and assistance. "

"This isn't _counsel!_ It's _interference."_

Qui-Gon sighed. "But the hard truth, Obi-Wan, is this: teaching does not occur in a void. You are, whether you like it or not, whether it is amenable to your preferences or not, part of a whole tradition and the living voices which constitute it. You cannot train a padawan in isolation from those who have in turn formed you; you are essentially tied to every master in this Temple."

"Some more than others, apparently ," the younger man fired back, dry as dust.

"The first year is the most difficult. You are learning more than your apprentice, and thereby suffering many a blow to the pride."

"Is that supposed to be _encouraging?"_

"No; merely a confirmation that what you are experiencing is natural and to be expected."

Obi-Wan's knuckles whitened as he gripped the railing's smooth edge. "I don't _require_ your reassurance. Any more than Anakin _requires_ to know every sordid detail of my past. He threw Bruck Chun in my teeth this afternoon – spurred on by one of the _living voices_ of the tradition. The same one that would have disciplined me for trespassing upon _his_privacy in the same manner."

"Not at all. I would have assigned you meditation on the nature of this _privacy_ to which you display, by the way, an unbecoming attachment."

"I fail to see how that is relevant to my point. You have no _right_ to preempt my teaching role. End of discussion."

"As you wish." The contest ended in a premature surrender; the Jedi master turned to depart, cloak rustling at his heels. "But I am always at your service, when and if your pride will permit it."

His fingers were poised above the door's control plate, ready to brush the surface with a soft nudge of the Force, when the tension burst and dissolved like dew upon a gossamer web.

"Wait. Qui-Gon."

He turned, suspended upon the threshold, anticipating an apology or perhaps a lighthearted jest.

But the younger man did not turn to meet his gaze. "The first year is the hardest?" he said, still leaning heavily against the rail, addressing the starmap spangled across thin air above both their heads.

A wistful smile tugged at the master's mouth. "And the most … inspirational." When he received no reply, he lingered but a moment longer, attuned to the softer, melancholic tones resonating in the Force, the first blunting of his young companion's pique.

Obi-Wan thrust the fingers of one hand through his hair, leaving the strictly combed and severely disciplined swath standing in disarray, according to its natural propensity. "Good night," he muttered.

"Good night," the tall man made answer, and tactfully took the hint – and his leave.


	5. Chapter 5

**Legacy VI**

_**Chapter 5: Bottleneck**_

* * *

"Are you gonna blitz me _now?"_ Anakin despondently inquired, the moment he heard Obi-Wan's weary tread cross the threshold of their shared quarters.

"No." The young Knight tossed his cloak upon the nearest meditation cushion and flung wide the balcony doors, admitting a gust of chill dawn air and the slightly acrid scent of Coruscant's smog-laced skylanes.

A yawn threatened to smother the boy's next protest. "Buuu-u—ut… I'm so tired! I didn't sleep at all and I stayed right here like you said but you never came back and what am I supposed to _do?"_

Obi-Wan crushed three _noori_ leaves between his fingers, in the traditional manner, dropping the fragrant detritus into the ceramplast teapot. "Continue to stay there."

Sulking in his assigned corner, the miscreant padawan hunched his shoulders and scowled, lower lip protruding slightly. "This is dumb."

His mentor raised a brow, sharply.

"This is dumb, _Master._ With respect," his unfortunate apprentice dutifully amended.

"It is indeed. As are unseemly and hostile outbursts, as well as taking offense because another being does not happen to share your perspective. I should have thought you would be enjoying your present activity; it seems consonant with your chosen life_style."_

"I bet Ferus Olin isn't getting punished like this," Anakin grumbled.

"Possibly not. But he is perhaps not subject to the same elite expectations as you are."

"He's older than me! Like a year and a half or something!"

Obi-Wan fixed his indignant companion with a stern look. "_He_ is not a padawan learner. You are. " A raised hand forestalled any further debate. "You have taken sacred vows to pursue this path; if you wish to master the Jedi arts, then you must first master _yourself."_

The boy's eyes widened in acute frustration. "That's all we ever talk about! Self control, self denial, self everything. What about other people? What about bad guys? Slavers and pirates and murderers and that Sith _sleemo_ and Tuskens and cheaters and liars and _e'schuzzo_ everywhere. I want to _make _them stop, and make people be good and help one another, and make everyone see the truth! That's the whole point, isn't it? What's wrong with that?"

"You would hold others to a higher standard than that which you impose upon yourself?"

Anakin crossed his arms and rumpled his nose, fidgeting where he knelt. "Not fair."

The tea was hot, and bracing.

"I wish you would just blitz me and get it over with," the overwrought padawan lamented.

"….If only it were that easy."

* * *

The grandmaster's hoverchair – seldom employed, and valued as a nuisance in the eyes of its user – burbled sedately along the corridor, the repulsors set at just over a meter from the floor, affording the ancient Jedi a parity in _height_ which he did not ordinarily enjoy.

"What?" he exclaimed, wrinkled mouth puckering mischievously. "Grown bored already, have you, Obi-Wan?"

The young Knight paced evenly down the concourse. "I have been in Temple _six _ months, Master," he pointed out, mildly. "It is high time I was out in the field again."

But old Yoda was unimpressed. "Thought of this, you should have, before taking _infant_ for padawan." The remark was accented with a sharp snort.

Such attempts at provocation were _de rigueur _ in any conversation with the cantankerous old Jedi; Obi-Wan pressed on, undeterred. "We have both learned much, during this period of time. But I think our routine has grown …stale. Broader horizons are called for."

Yoda flicked one long ear at him, peremptorily. "Restless spirit are you. Teach your padawan the same, you must not. "

"Believe me, Master, Anakin makes me look positively sedate. Phlegmatic, even."

They took a turning at the next archway and proceeded down a sweeping stairway, flanked by sentinel statues and an impossibly vaulted ceiling to either side. Light shafted from lofty skylights; incense spiraled lazily toward a ventilator grille far overhead, carried aloft upon a broad and ceremonious current of cycled 'air. The Jedi Temple seemed to draw in an expansive breath here at its architectural heart. Yoda changed topics with the shift in direction, ambling down a connecting passage of thought. "How find you teaching, hmm? Enjoy the senior padawans, do you?"

"I try my best."

"No try is there. Popular acclaim, you inspire, in junior ranks."

A wry shrug. "Well, then, I've failed spectacularly. Teaching isn't about personality."

The ancient master wrinkled his nose. "About inspiration, it is. Talent you have, Obi-Wan. " A sly puckering of the old one's mouth. "Tempted I am, to retire you early. Keep you on staff permanently."

The younger Jedi almost stumbled upon his alarm. "What? Master – you cannot be serious. I - "

"Heee heeeee heh heh heh heh hee." The ancient Jedi's cackle echoed off the marble floor, softening into an amused wheeze. "Serious?" he demanded, ears perking impishly. "Serious is _your_ problem." A sharp poke in the arm accompanied this utterance.

Obi-Wan ignored the jibe, cautiously formulating his reply. "I will serve however I am needed, Master, and in whatever capacity… but surely there are missions to which I might also profitably devote my effort."

"Maybe," the obstinate old master acceded, grudgingly. "Maybe."

"So you will consider it?"

They had reached the base of the south tower, and the parting of ways. The diminutive Jedi grumbled throatily. "When time is right, consider it I will. Patience, must you have. In meanwhile, squabbles your padawan has created among younglings, yes? So eager for galactic affairs are you, when diplomatic crisis erupts so close to home?" A clawed hand waved itself under his nose. "…Shameful."

The subject of this upbraiding gritted his teeth and made a humble bow, exhaling slowly as the Grandmaster wheeled his hoverchair about and entered the hoverlift without further words of dismissal.

When the burnished doors had slid shut, stranding him upon the island of his own pique, he folded his arms tightly across his chest and raised his brows a sarcastic half-notch. _Diplomatic crisis close to home_ indeed. He had more than one such problem on his hands – and as a negotiator trained by the formidable Qui-Gon Jinn, he wasn't about to meekly submit to the terms of parlay laid down by his imperious interlocutor.

"As you say, Master," he muttered, and pivoted on one heel –

-only to come up a hairs'breadth short of Qui-Gon himself.

"Easy," the tall Jedi master chuckled, preventing their imminent collision with one broad hand. "…Distracted, are we?"

Coloring slightly, the young Knight took a half-step backward and nodded his apology. "Yes. Well, apparently so."

The older man's grey eyes twinkled to either side of his crooked nose. "Master Yoda has that effect. But I am grateful. The disturbance in the Force made you easy to locate."

Obi-Wan raised a quizzical brow. "You could try the commlink on occasion, Master."

"Ah… but I cannot bestow a gift through that vicarious means." A flourish of the wrist, and the Jedi master had produced a thin strip of yambo reed, supple and strong.

"What's this?" his former student queried, accepting the object with dubious expression.

"For your mandrangea seedling. I forgot to mention that it will require a trellis."

"Oh. Thank you."

They fell into step side by side, long cloaks skimming the inlaid floors, boots treading the time-worn parquet at a pace measured and tempered by long habit. "I take it the old troll was in one of his more eclectic frames of mind."

Obi-Wan snorted softly. "Master was in fine form."

"And you?"

"Have apparently earned myself an indefinite tenure on the teaching committee. There is such a thing as doing something too well."

The tall man's mouth quirked at one corner; he addressed the effigy of Ku'Blaghast Furoor as they passed beneath the famous sage's outstretched arm. "The boy grows in wisdom every day."

They leisurely followed the outside wall, where the morning sun spilled golden through fifteen windows, one for each of the founding precepts. Obi-Wan playfully slapped the thin reed against the palm of his opposite hand. "Do you remember that mission to whatsit… when we were stuck in the Keru Muugar hospitality tower for more than a week waiting for the summit delegations to arrive?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "Ah, yes. You were climbing the walls. I remember sending you out to explore the civic center before you drove me stark raving mad. A padawan is a dangerous thing."

"You're telling me."

"I also recall _bailing_ you out of prison after the local magistrates mistook you for a juvenile delinquent. An understandable error, of course. "

"Ha. If I don't set foot outside Temple soon, you'll likely be bailing me out of a local Coruscanti police depot holding cell. And Anakin needs the same thing. He's too… contained… here. "

Deep grooves appeared in the Jedi master's sloped forehead as he raised his brows. "And I gather that Master Yoda's advice was to accept your present circumstance? Patience and dedication in the yoke of duty?"

His companion scowled. "Something like that."

"And?"

"Focus determines reality_. Some forms of acceptance only perpetuate an illusory obstacle in our path to wisdom._ Or so my old Master used to say. Generally before he committed some shocking impertinence in the Council chamber."

Qui-Gon held up a hand. "I am not involved in this fight. It is all your own this time." He skewered his former student with a shrewdly assessing look.

"So you approve."

A dark chuckle. "May the Force be with you, brat."

* * *

"I hate geometry," Anakin declared.

Obi-Wan spared him a swift and quelling look, then returned to the task at hand. The mandrangea bean seedling had a distinct _droop_ to its posture; it displayed little enthusiasm for the strict rectitude to which he was so assiduously _training_ it, one careful knot at a time. The soft green shoots seemed to rebel against his efforts to secure their upright future, slumping disconsolately against the twine and generally showing no inclination to follow the straight path provided for their further development.

But surely Qui-Gon would not be mistaken about such a thing?

"Awwww…. What the heck is an _apothem?"_ his equally dispirited padawan moaned.

The young Knight regarded his handiwork critically. Should he tie the maverick creepers more _tightly?_ Or would that cut off their circulation, or the botanical equivalent thereof? "Refer to your notes," he suggested, taking his own advice. The temple database link was not helpful on the subject, limiting its excursus to an abstract consideration of pan galactic agricultural practices and species identification parameters.

"You shouldn't hate geometry," he advised his frustrated protégé.

"I know, I know," the boy moaned, burying his head in his arms. "A Jedi doesn't hate anything."

"A Jedi does not squander his disdain upon so trivial an object as geometry. Wait till you hit differential calculus. _Then_ talk to me about the Dark Side."'

Anakin looked up, a glint of hope lightening his despairing mood. "How come you're tying that plant to that stick thing?"

The line between his mentor's brows deepened. His apprentice's botanical savvy was limited to squat desert succulents and the sort of mico-protein slime that miraculously bloomed on Tatooine's south facing sand slopes at dawn.

"IS it _supposed_ to be like that ?" the youngling persisted, head tilted to one side.

Obi-Wan's eyes slid sideways. "If I don't forcibly restrain this plant, its latent carnivorous tendencies will run amok, and it will likely devour you while you sleep."

A pair of sapphire blue eyes widened in alarm, a moment before the door chime sounded.

"I'll get it!" Anakin yelped, bounding out of his seat.

But his exuberance met an abrupt demise upon the doorstep. There, limned in faint phosphorescence by the footlights in the hushed outside corridor, stood Ferus Olin - with Sifa Ko-La in grim attendance behind him.

"Uh…. Come in," Anakin offered, insincerely.

The visitors took him at his word, silently invading the common room.

"Good evening," the Graan clanmistress greeted her host.

"May I offer you tea?" the latter person politely inquired.

Sifa sniffed. "I do not indulge in artificial stimulants, thank you."

Her small charge looked smug, sparking a flare of resentment in his rival.

Obi-Wan placed both hands on Anakin's shoulders. "To what do we owe this pleasure, Master Sifa?"

"Ferus craves a private word with Padawan Skywalker," the elderly Jedi replied, pursing her lips.

Stepping forward as though to take the podium, the youngling in question addressed himself squarely to his agemate, the words tumbling past his lips in a smooth current of rote recitation. "I apologize for my derogatory words earlier. Origins and circumstances of birth are inconsequential to a Jedi and do not measure the value of a sentient being. I would like to resolve any misunderstanding that exists between us and proceed on a mutuous -mutuallly… respectful footing." Having tripped up but once upon this prepared speech, Ferus folded his hands together in the ubiquitous and traditional posture of patience and awaited the proper reply.

Anakin's eyebrows beetled together thunderously. "So… you're taking back what you said about me lying?"

The older of the two boys shifted uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder at the Graan looming close behind him.

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan swiftly interceded, "You can agree to disagree on that particular point. Your honorable conduct toward one another is of far more importance than any point of debate."

His own apprentice retreated into a mutinous reticence; Ferus Olin nodded gravely. "Yes, Master."

A pregnant pause, in which each youngling studied his counterpart warily. Then –

"But you didn't _really_ fight a Sith and cut off his arm, did you, Master?"

There was _need_ written all over the taller initiate's face – the stark plea of a child whose secure edifice of certainty had been threatened, for whom some impalpable bulwark between reality and nightmare had been subtly violated. Obi-Wan met Sifa Ko-La's eyes and saw in their soft depths a protective fury rigidly contained.

"Are you calling my master a liar too?" Anakin snarled. "Cause it's all in the mission report, you know! And the Council know s about it – they just don't; tell you cause you're too young and ignorant to understand!"

"_Padawan!"_

The crechemistress drew herself up, spine a plumbline of affront. "I can see very little _discipline_ of any sort has been imposed here." She folded solicitous hands about her student's slim shoulders. "Come, Ferus. You have made amends enough; there is no need to engage further in futile discourse."

But the dark haired lad was not so easily put off. Color flooded his cheeks as he gently resisted all efforts at shepherding him out the door. "But…. You didn't really do those things," he insisted, tremulously. "It's not really in the mission report, is it? Master?"

Obi-Wan dropped to one knee, bringing himself more to the boy's own height. "Ferus," he assured the stricken initiate, "It would be severe misconduct to lie or misconstrue my own actions in a report to the Council." His hand rested lightly upon his 'saber's pommel. "I promise you, on my oath of Knighthood : I would never do such a thing."

Melting with existential relief, Ferus nodded several times in gratitude and allowed himself to be swallowed into Sifa's somewhat unwelcome and coddling half-embrace. A moment later, he had been whisked out into the corridor among the folds of her cloak. A small bow of the Graan's head conveyed a measure of thanks as well – albeit one tempered by a generous dash of _disapproval._

The door 's pistons seemed to exhale in unison with the young Jedi.

Anakin had the sense to hold his tongue. For a span of several breaths.

"Are you gonna blitz me _now?"_ he inquired, when the tension finally exceeded the bounds of his tolerance.

"No," his mentor decided, after due and weighty consideration.

"Oh….so, um….. ?"

"So, _um - _ to use your colloquial phrase – you are now going to finish that geometry assignment, and then your other assignments, and then get to bed."

"That's all?"

"Do you _want_ there to be more?"

The boy's piercing blue gaze focused intently upon the worn carpet underfoot. "Um…."

"When you decide what it is you want, Anakin, do let me know."

The boy's nose scrunched dubiously, and he scratched at an itch just above his stubby braid's tangled root. "Okay. I mean, Yes, Master."

Obi-Wan dismissed him with a weary wave of the hand and stood contemplating the air traffic outside the darkened balcony window for long minutes. A colossal traffic jam had slowed district airlanes to a virtual crawl, he noted with a singularly wry twist of the mouth.

This _padawan_ business was going to be the death of him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Legacy VI**

* * *

_**Chapter 6: Diplomatic Solution**_

Coruscant's morning sun beat down upon the floating pedestrian plaza with unbridled savagery; somewhere far overhead, the orbital mirrors were angled to refract the planet's mild-mannered sun-rays in such fashion as to generate a cloudbank sufficiently large to produce freshwater precipitation in this-or-that sector. At some point in his distant past – say, ten years ago – Obi-Wan had assiduously studied and memorized all the details of the city-world's peculiar atmospheric regulation system, and had even been able to employ the various formulas which governed its meteorological alchemy; however, that body of knowledge had subsequently proved far less useful to him than pan-galactic languages, 'saber kata, piloting skills, and the proper method for kindling a fire out of thin air and the Force when necessity demanded – and so, had faded into the general blur of childhood recollection. He cast a critical eye upward at the glazed sky, the molten gold reflections off the bronzium-plated cupola on a tower just to his right, on the bustling crowd of vendors and would-be bargain seekers at the local bazaar just beyond.

Jedi uniform _did_ involve a convoluted number of _layers,_ when one got right down to it.

He sighed, adjusted the tilt of the repulsor-shade currently sheltering him from the bright glare, and smiled beneficently when the waitron droid appeared at his elbow with a fresh serving of iced _sapir_ tea, a gauche concoction rendered more appealing not only by the fact of its refreshing coolness, but also by the young Jedi's awareness that Qui-Gon Jinn would consider the _icing _of tea an abject barbarity.

He levitated the sucra-marinated citron peel out of his glass with a small grimace; he could only tolerate a certain degree of uncivilized custom himself. The action, though subtle, caught the attention of a curious Dressalian toddler at the next table; the child's deepset eyes widened in wonder a moment before a string of excited babble escaped her wrinkled lips. Inevitably, the youngling's chaperones set to whispering, the word "Jedi" carrying across the crowded café-patio chatter like foam atop a roiling wave. A pair of loitering ne'er-do-wells at the edge of the assembly turned their heads, catching the faint rumor upon the wind, and scanned the enclosure's occupants more closely.

Obi-Wan cocked a brow, folded his cloak aside _just _ far enough to reveal a hint of 'saber hilt hanging at his hip, and casually tapped his reader's display screen to the next file. Grading papers was _so_ tedious – senior padawans were famous for their diligence and devotion, but not for the virtue of literary style, per se. He frowned over Ingwe Fuulsomm's final exam for a few minutes before submitting judgment: _Well expressed, displaying familiarity with abstruse cultural idiosyncrasies and a perfect conceptual grasp of course content. You would, however, last exactly fifteen seconds negotiating with a real band of Phylaxxi hijackers before their concealed sniper blew your head off. _He docked ten points from the total score and grimly moved on to the next essay, sparing one upward glance at the place where the scruffy layabouts had been lounging earlier.

The disreputable pair had deemed it prudent to move on.

He propped one boot-heel upon the opposite knee, took a long draught of iced _sapir_ tea, and carried on with the onerous task of marking exams. He was nearly finished with the Exogenous Diplomacy Level Aleph_ written_ exams when the Force seemed to shudder, tremble, and thunder portentously – a few heartbeats before the bustling marketplace just across the plaza erupted into a noisy ruckus.

Insults and fists flew freely; a portable plastiflex canopy collapsed, scattering wares across the pavement; a squadron of brisk Coruscanti police drones was dispatched to restore order. At the center of the fracas was a four-armed Besalisk merchant, gesticulating fiercely and bawling calumnies sky-high. He was swiftly surrounded by the police bots and a vociferous crowd, a sea of antennae and cranial horns and hair and eyestalks and waving hands clamoring to lend its voice to the general confusion. Amid the chaos there was, thankfully, not to be seen a slip of cream linen or a tell-tale skirl of dark cloak, but when three of the senior class appeared slightly breathless and with tabards askew, just behind the patio-gate, it became clear that _evasive maneuvers _were in order.

"Master," one of the miscreants – Atar – gasped.

"Sorry, Master Obi-Wan, we ….um…"

"It wasn't my idea," Kiru insisted.

The young Knight's eyes narrowed. "Which one of you _chosskis_ tried to use mind influence on a Force opaque being?" he inquired.

The padawans squirmed visibly.

"All right, none of you is getting full marks on the practicum. Get back to the mag-train station _fast._ And comm the others – we're done for the day."

A handsome tip and a nod of gratitude in the proprietor's direction smoothed the transition from café customer to fleeing shadow; a moment later, he was in mid-air between the plaza platform and the arched roof of a stationary air gondola, and a moment after that, he was sailing over the roof of a lower arcade walkway and onto the girders of a subsection comm hub. And so on and so on, all the way to the local magtrain stop. The benefit of teaching _senior_ padawans, of course, was the relative competence of one's students. Not that they could be trusted to _always_ use prudence – as the Besalisk incident witnessed- but they could at least be relied upon to keep a rendezvous and to find their own way out of humdrum, everyday trouble.

All the same, Padawan Fuulsomm was three minutes behind the pack, causing them to miss the first departure.

And it wasn't as though a group of _fourteen_ Jedi in the civic transport center wasn't attracting attention. Obi-Wan repelled the curious stares directed their way and turned the remnant of his focused glower upon the latecomer.

"Tardy. Five points off."

Ingwe clutched a stitch in his side, but offered no impertinent objection.

A second train was rocketing toward the platform, propelled by the polarized mag-lev field generated by its immense generator posts. Obi-Wan counted heads one last time. "Anyone manage to procure _all _the items on his or her list without exceeding budget?"

A few hands rose; some heads dropped in shame or frustration.

"Anyone turn a _profit?"_

No answer to that; the possibility may not have even occurred to them. Apparently there weren't any _inspired_ members of the junior ranks in this group – but that was no marvel, since none here was apprenticed to Qui-Gon Jinn.

"Very well. Let's go. "

The transport wheezed into its docking clamp with a deafening squeal ; a hysterical pressure release valve doused them all in acrid steam. When the train lurched off again two minutes later, the Jedi flew away with it, dwindling into a speck on Coruscant's ragged geometrical horizon.

* * *

His smug satisfaction at having submitted final grades _ahead_ of the stipulated deadline, and having therefore temporarily cleared a four hour segment of his daily schedule for _saber practice_, was slightly marred by the crestfallen mien of his own apprentice upon his return.

"Dare I ask?" Obi-Wan wondered aloud, bracing himself for the latest episode in the boy's serial misadventures.

Anakin slumped further. "I failed the Philosophy exam," he blurted, the confession's timbre more that of resentment than remorse. "Don't be mad."

"Why would I be _mad?_ " the young Knight quipped, tossing his cloak through the open doorway onto his sleepcouch. _Four hours_ of leisure.

"Uh…. 'cause I failed?"

_Four hours_ in the dojo. "You are obviously indulging in that unhelpful sentiment as we speak, so I shan't waste my own effort upon it. Why did Master Kol'Bretta fail you?"

"Well, partly 'cause I wrote it in Huttese. I just … _Think_ better in Huttese sometimes. I can't think how to say stuff in Basic when its philosophy and ethics and chupa koomi yodo. But also I think he just doesn't like me."

"I hesitate to accuse Master Kol'Bretta of such pettiness."

Anakin scrunched his nose and fell backward across the meditation cushion, limbs splayed despondently in all directions, face turned toward the bland stretch of ceiling overhead. A dramatic sigh prefaced his next words. " Well, not me exactly. It's more like he just kinda disapproves on principle. That I'm here. Like that you're my teacher and all. It's hard to explain."

The stern Iktotchi master had been a bane of Obi-Wan's own formative years; while the strict formal proscription of all special grudges was a pillar of Jedi conduct, there were always exceptions to rules. The young Knight ran a hand through his hair and regarded his despondent learner.. "Ah, I see. Guilty by association. And in Huttese, no less."

"I'm really sorry, Master. I don't want to disappoint you."

The husky-edged plea resonated with long-forgotten yearnings, the uncertain painful _need_ of youth. Master Kol'Bretta's disdain, the irritation of Sifa Ko La, the mutterings and dark looks cast their way by various and sundry denizens of the Temple – all these paled to ghostly ephemera in the light of the Force's _here and now._ "Anakin."

The boy looked up.

"A setback is no reason to despair. "

"But aren't you disappointed?"

"I do not think passing this particular written exam is essential to your training . We've discussed the material at length; you understand it. An exam is nothing but a test of facility in repetition. _Live_ what you learn, and you succeed far beyond that measure."

Anakin rolled upright, gaping. "But I thought –"

"Do you want to be a Jedi or not?"

"I do! That's all I want! But how can I be, if they're all gonna fail me and say stuff behind your back and make it so _hard?"_

Obi-Wan sat down beside his small charge, fixing him with an amused half-smile. "Are they making it all _that _ difficult?"

"Well, _duh."_

"Good. That's just how I like it."

Defiance snapped in the Force's invisible wind, one bright pennant unfurling beside another, a double heraldic challenge raised aloft. The smile proved contagious.

"So… it's all right?"

"It's splendid. I eat _difficult_ for breakfast."

"Me too, Master!" the boy agreed, mercuric spirit catching the bold spark and instantly going up in flame. "Cause I'm gonna be the best Jedi ever and blitz Sith and stuff, just like you and Master Qui-Gon! People can complain and give us the stink eye all they want, but _e'chuta _to them!"

"…Anakin."

"Awwwww. Sorry, Master. … How many?"

"Forty push ups. Then get changed. We're headed to the dojo for the remainder of the day."

The padawan bolted from his perch and tore into the smaller bedroom, to the accompaniment of an enthusiastic _yipppeeeeeee._

* * *

After a rejuvenating seventeen bouts in the Knights' dojo, during which time Anakin more or less demurely practiced his basic kata in an empty corner, Obi-Wan felt it incumbent upon himself to provide the boy a stretch of less rigidly circumscribed recreation. Accordingly, they retired to the obstacle course to hone their balance and agility skills together. Anakin, he had discovered within weeks of officially apprenticing his new student, had the innate gymnastic grace of a colwar; abandoning the usual sorts of exercises, the two of them had invented a kind of tag game played amongst the high beams and wires, a contest in which superior experience was delicately pitted versus Anakin's much lighter mass and size. The wobbling elements of the course, the thin and precariously tethered beams – not to mention Anakin's inherent lack of self-preservatory fear – conspired to make the padawan a formidable opponent , and the game a mutual favorite.

A hoverball flitted between the whimsical architecture of their playground – its present configuration concocted by whomever had last used the practice room – reversing and dodging as they each attempted to hunt it down, leaping from flimsy support to tenuously balanced tower to taut wire, climbing ceiling-ward and then descending in fluid waterfalls of motion toward some nook near the floorboards, only to be thwarted again and again by the cunning droid, or by the proximity of the other. To be tagged by one's competitor would result in the assignation of a penalty, and the loss of a round.

And Obi-Wan hadn't even seen fit to turn the automatic's stun bolt feature on yet. When his padawan was a bit older, they would –

"Ahem."

Anakin lost his footing and fell, instinctively curling into a flip and reaching for the nearest beam; Obi-Wan caught his arm as he plummeted, sent himself tumbling in a cautious circle and absorbed the impact neatly on one shoulder and into a roll as they hit the mats below together in a mostly-controlled sprawl.

The padawan sprung up immediately as he had been taught. "I'm OK!"

Mace Windu's towering figure cast an impalpable shadow in the Force, seeming to stretch past the far wall and loom ominously over both of them. "That's a relief," the Korun master drily intoned.

"Master." Obi-Wan pressed the palm of one hand over the spot where his apprentice's bony elbow had driven hard into his belly, masking the sign of discomfort with a bow.

"A word with you, Kenobi."

The young Knight raised both brows in feigned surprise.

Mace's lips pursed. _I know you know that I know you know what this is about._

"Anakin… go freshen up. We're done for now."

The tow-headed boy paused fractionally, curiosity burning in wide-opened eyes, but obeyed without vocal protest, pattering away toward the shower rooms with head craned over one eager shoulder.

The dark Councilor fell into a battle-ready stance amply suggestive of tightly furled power. "Let's cut to the chase," he suggested, in a tone of command.

"Of course, Master…. Though you have me somewhat at a loss," the younger Jedi baldly lied, in a disingenuous tone.

Mace snorted, dismissing this polite nothing on a gust of dubiety. "There was a disturbance in one of the civic mercantile sectors this afternoon – the exact same one you just _happened_ to use as stage setting for a 'practicum' exam for Diplomacy Aleph."

"_Exogenous_ Diplomacy Aleph," Obi-Wan clarified.

"Since when," the Jedi master rumbled, "does a scavenger hunt for illegal black market items qualify as an scholastic exercise?"

The culprit dipped his head as they paced quietly toward the exit. "Forgive me… I am not an academic by training."

Mace reached up one powerful arm and leaned casually in the doorframe. "Personally I think your methods are … inspired. But you've got the senior teaching staff up in arms. Kol'Bretta in particular."

"Ah… yes."

The Korun master leaned in closer. "Why do I have the feeling this wasn't an accident?"

"Nothing is an accident in the Force, Master," came the glib reply. Obi-Wan did not flinch beneath the senior Jedi's penetrating regard.

"Hm." The tall man straightened. "There is more than one kind of diplomacy. Between the older masters calling for your blood, and the incessant trouble surrounding your padawan, I think it's time to make some _space_ for everyone involved. In the interest of keeping the peace here inside this Temple, I'm going to have to remove you from the teaching roster. As a disciplinary action. You'll be placed back on active duty effective tomorrow."

The malfeasant grinned broadly , displaying the full extent of his contrition.

Master Windu's fathomless eyes narrowed. _I know you know I know that you knew this would be the outcome. _"May the Force be with you," he growled.

The young Knight's respectful bow was deep, and richly nuanced by a victorious irony.

"I would elect you to the Council if you weren't such a_ brat_, Kenobi," Mace shot over his shoulder as he flowed away down the outside corridor, his powerful liquid gait carrying him around the corner and out of earshot before any reply could be made.


	7. Chapter 7

**Legacy VI**

* * *

_**Chapter 7: Omission and Commission**_

"Peremptorily expelled from the magisterial ranks," Qui-Gon chuckled, setting his empty stewbowl upon the waitron droid's tray with a gracious nod of thanks.

"There is such a thing as doing a thing too well," his former apprentice reminded him, smugly.

And," the Jedi master shrewdly appended, " There is a man of my acquaintance who knows _precisely_ where the line between excellence and excess lies, down to the last micrometer's distinction."

"Precision is a virtue." Obi-Wan straightened the rigidly parallel lines of his utensils.

"I have high hopes your padawan and the Force will cure you of it one of these days soon."

The droid returned with a pot of mediocre refectory-standard tea, which they were both content enough in the moment to enjoy. "I've not yet told Anakin we're likely to be assigned a mission soon."

Qui-Gon's brows rose. "I did not see your name on the active duty roster."

His companion faltered slightly in his pouring of two _precisely_ equal bowls. "What?"

"You are nowhere to be found on the diplomatic or relief corps lists, nor on any journey mission allocation. Nor are you listed as resident in Temple." Qui-Gon pilfered a sucron cube and popped it in his mouth. "I found the omission … intriguing."

A soft crease appeared between Obi-Wan's brows. "I cannot take Anakin on a covert mission," he objected.

The tall men kicked his chair back onto the rim of its support disc, and contemplated the arched ceiling. "Indeed not. "

"He hasn't a clandestine bone in his body .. and besides, he's far too young. And unseasoned. The Council must know that…. I wonder…."

The older man stretched his long shanks out beneath the table and gravely accepted his tea-bowl. "I would expect your convenient disappearance from official records has less to do with undercover peril and more to do with Senatorial oversight."

"Oh. Yes." A long draught of hot liquid. "The new _protocols."_

Qui-Gon smiled wanly at his friend's subtle lip-curl of disgust. "It is a remarkable day when I find myself in agreement with Master Dooku.. but I will confess that direct 'Senatorial Supervision' of the Order does seem… problematic."

"You just have an endemic authority problem, Master."

They shared a wry laugh at that.

"Still. While the current Chancellor retains his wits, the legalities remain merely formal. We can hope that Valorum's successor is possessed of an equally enlightened outlook."

"Elections are not for a few years yet. I'm not fretting."

The Jedi master lifted a warning finger. "And by then, you will have a padawan in full-blown adolescence. May the Force be with you."

* * *

"Direct senatorial supervision of the Order is not merely problematic," Dooku scoffed. "I should characterize it as _asinine."_ He dismissed the very _notion_ with a wave of one perfectly manicured hand and a lift of one supercilious, silver brow. "The audacity of swill-fed swine adopting a pretense of _power._ Without the Order, the Senate, and indeed the Republic itself, would long ago have collapsed beneath the weight of its own fetid corruption."

"Speaking off the record," Obi-Wan quipped.

The senior Sentinel spared him an appreciative half-smirk. "It is to be hoped _private_ conversation might remain free of bureaucratic prurience."

"Indeed, Master."

They strolled along the outside perimeter of _aoli_ trees, the line of tall evergreen spears planted in decades recently, as a screen against Coruscant's ever-encroaching pollution and air-traffic. Even the Temple's mighty edifice stood in danger of being swallowed by the megalopolis' tumescent growth.

"Our politician friends' vapid squabbling looks to commerce and taxation rights as the source of instability… they have no inkling what true power threatens their security."

Obi-Wan frowned, lifting his face to the dusking skies overhead. Ambient light masked the stars, cast a sickly phosphor glow upward upon the scudding veils of cloud. There was no nighttime clarity to be had here, on the city-planet's frenetic surface. Only the Force could provide that.

"You are disturbed," Dooku remarked, pausing to prod with one booted foot at a coiled succulent planted beneath the sheltering stoop of a deformed _yarba_ bush.

The thing snaked out a tentacle to ward off his unwelcome attentions.

"I am under the impression that the Senators are not alone in their willful ignorance."

The senior Jedi breathed out slowly, lips curving into a humorless smile.

Obi-Wan continued, undaunted. "One of our own initiates recently informed me that _there is no such thing as a Sith."_

Dooku lost interest in the kinetoflora specimen and moved onward. "Ah, but ignorance is bliss, my young friend; and some would argue that bliss is a prerequisite of _docility."_

The plant's stray tentacle wrapped amorously about the younger Jedi's ankle as he passed, relinquishing its fond grip regretfully as he strode on in the Sentinel's wake. "I intend to train my padawan in different fashion," he said, grimly.

"Have a care," Dooku advised, tones as silken as ever, "if you wish to play with fire. It is not a game to be undertaken by the inexperienced. Even Qui-Gon found himself burned once upon a time, toying with alternative pedagogy. Expose a young mind to the Dark too wantonly… and it seeps in."

Obi-Wan's posture stiffened. "I am surprised to hear you say so, Master. With respect."

The Shadow's thin chuckle echoed off the watchful _aoli_ colonnade. "Have a care, Master Kenobi," he repeated, cultured voice dangerously smooth, like the dark meniscus of wine clinging to a goblet's bottommost curve. "You still have much to learn."

They parted ways at the path's end, at the entrance to the Temple's humble lower levels on the west-facing side. Obi-Wan ducked inside the light and warmth kindling within the ivory walls, while Dooku remained outdoors, contemplating the long twilight.

* * *

"Choobazzi!" Anakin yelped, making a rambunctious circuit of the common room. He vaulted over the mandrangea bean seedling's demurely drooping form and bounced happily onto a meditation cushion. "We're gonna _travel!"_

"Presumably. Though I must warn you, space travel may not be as glamorous as you think."

"I came _here_," the youngling insisted. "I love flying!"

Obi-Wan was on the point of issuing a warning about the hard living conditions to be expected during a mission to far-flung sectors, but reminded himself at the last moment that his padawans' stint as a slave boy on the most backward dustball in the Outer Rim had already indelibly inured him to deprivation and hostile surroundings. In some ways, Anakin was a parsec ahea d of his contemporaries in the Temple, who – though certainly raised in an ascetical milieu – had no real experience of _insecurity._ He even blushed to think of his own youthful indignation: _I've never met such evil people, Master!_ …. This child sitting so eagerly at his feet had seen more of life's seedy underside than many a person twice and three times his age.

The boy would never be taken unawares by the banal, or the malicious. It was forbearance, patience, subtlety which bemused his mind and eluded his immediate grasp. Trickier to patch together a prematurely shattered innocence than to gently break a virginal spirit to the harsh realities of life.

"Aw, I hate it when you do that," the child complained.

"Hate is a strong word. What you mean is –"

"I mean you're looking at me like I'm all transparent and squishy on the inside like those Chapa beetles with the guts that show through and stuff. And I can't tell what you're thinking."

It had taken several months' effort to master _shielding_ his perceptions and emotions from the overinquisitive prurience of his new charge; even now, though, the prodigy could occasionally burrow beneath his most assiduously maintained mental wards with the ease of a molska ploughing through moist soil. Obi-Wan instinctively brushed away the prying psychic tendril that nudged at his uppermost thoughts.

"You don't need to. And may I pointy out that simply because we are _available_ for a mission, it does not follow that we will be assigned immediately. It could be days or weeks – "

"Or _hours!"_ Anakin enthused. "I'm already packed. I'm totally _ready,_Master! What system do you think we're gonna see first? I hope it's like somewhere nobody has ever been before!"

"Unlikely that we should be called upon to keep the peace of an unoccupied planet," his teacher retorted, dryly.

"Oh. Yeah. But still! And I was wondering: do I get a weapon since we're going on a mission?"

Obi-Wan cocked a brow. "One lightsaber should be sufficient. A weapon is not – "

"I'm a _crack shot_ with a blaster," the boy asserted. "At least, I'm pretty sure I would be. If I got a chance to try one out."

The young Jedi held up a hand. "And that would be a _no."_

The resultant pout lasted all of a half-second before the padawan leapt up again and bounced to the door, anticipating the soft chime by a full two seconds.

Garen Muln stood grinning upon the threshold, a hefty synthfiber sack slung over one shoulder, weight casually propped upon the cane in his left hand. "Good evening."

Anakin gasped in delight. "Mister Garen sir! You got one for me!"

Their visitor sidled apologetically past the gaping youngling and caught his friend's eye. "I was going to ask your permission, of course – "

"Of course," Obi-Wan growled.

Garen had the good grace to blush. "Well, all right – it was a bit of a conspiracy, but it's harmless, Obes –"

"So you say."

"It's _wizard!"_ Anakin yelped, peeking into the sack's loosely-bound opening. "Please please Master can I keep him I won't do anything bad ever again I'll do all my assignments without complaining and I won't cuss and I won't fight with Ferus Olin and I'll be patient and everything! Please!"

Obi-Wan's arms folded over his chest. "A Jedi does not _beg—"_

" Yes he does," Garen snorted, upending his heavy burden upon the polished floor. Metal and circuitry rattled and clattered into a disorderly pile. One or two small objects rolled into corners; a thing disturbingly like a _hand_ lodged itself beneath the scarred common room table.

"What in _Force's name_ is that?"

Garen had the temerity to laugh in his face; Anakin in the meanwhile was capering about like an inebriated monkey lizard.

"Awww, it's totally rugged! Are all the pieces there? What about the processor? Does it have a central integrator circuit? And what kind of motivator unit? And how 'bout the faceplate… is it in that pile?"

The senior padawan gestured with his cane's blunt end. "All inclusive. Well, mostly. You'll have to make some new armature bits – he's missing a few plates and both optic lenses, but the motivator's intact. Wiring is a mess, but you can set that to rights in a trice. Oh, and here's a spare vocabulator, courtesy of the refuse yard supervisor on Vandor – apparently the previous owner had the old one ripped out. Must be a story behind that, eh?"

Obi-Wan clamped down hard on his student's shoulders. The child positively _quivered _ beneath his restraining hold. "But what in the blazes _is it?"_

"It," Garen announced, "- or rather he, is the broken remains of what must have been a _doozy_ of a protocol unit. I mean, voicebox ripped out and then the whole thing dismembered – you gotta wonder."

"It sounds like a dreadful failure at its role."

"Huttese owner, Obes. Lay off the poor scrapheap. Have some compassion."

"I'm gonna rebuild him!" Anakin peeped. "Please Master Obi-Wan! Please!"

This was too much to be borne with Jedi equanimity. "We have absolutely _no need_ for a star-forsaken translator droid."

The child cast his gaze down, instantly deflated. Garen scowled.

"And I did not invite you to play conspirator," the young Knight snapped at his agemate.

"I took the initiative," the miscreant fired back. "And this took some serious diplomacy. It was a steal at the price, in fact."

Bristling, Obi-Wan glared at his childhood friend. "Don't say another word. I don't wish to be implicated."

"It's okay, Mister Garen sir," Anakin sighed, making a despondent beeline for his small bedchamber. "I don't really need it. But thank you." The door closed behind him with a mournful hiss.

"Well done, gundark brains," the senior padawan growled. "Break the kid's heart and make me look like a goon."

"You are a goon, Muln."

"Go kark your all- holy self, Kenobi. You're not my master. Thank the Force."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"What's the harm in letting him have a project? This was a pain in the pula to obtain, by the way."

"My condolences. And my padawan is my business, not yours."

"Let the youngling build his vaping droid. Hells, he might have a companion that _cares_ about him."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth. "You are _far_ over the line."

"Yep. And you're short of the mark, if this is your best imitation of Qui-Gon."

Color suffused the young Knight's face. His expression flash-froze into an icy composure. "Good night."

Garen bowed stiffly, balancing on the cane. Anger ruddied his cheeks as well. "You're welcome," he snarled, turning stiffly to take his leave.

He had stumped into the outside corridor before Obi-Wan wrestled his pique into submission. "Wait! Garen."

The dark-haired Jedi hesitated, mouth a thin line, eyes glinting with obstinacy.

A bow. "Forgive my ill temper. And thank you for the gift. I am sure Anakin will find it… highly distracting."

The other young man grinned, and waved him away with one hand. His slightly syncopated gait echoed down the corridor, loud against the Temple's evening hush.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The protocol unit lay in scattered bits upon his common room floor, somehow mutely accusatory. He nudged one or two stray circuits back into the heap, noting that the macabre nature of _droids_ was only heightened by the spectacle of their disemboweled innards. Faced with the mess of lifeless circuitry and vaguely humanoid …_limbs…-_and was that a _head?—_he could almost fancy himself an innate adept of the Living Force.

Qui-Gon had always graciously accommodated their _very_ distinct and sometimes polar temperaments, while still maintaining his teaching authority, had he not?

"Master?" Anakin appeared tentatively upon the threshold of his room, probably sensing an abrupt shift in the Force's currents.

Expectation weighted the silence between them. And then -

"You may keep it. Him. So long as he does not get _underfoot."_

The boy bolted from his retreat with a whoop of triumph and gratitude. "Yes, Master! Thank you! Don't worry – once I finish, you're just gonna _love _him!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Legacy VI**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Change of Pace**

Leisure was a thing elusive, a guest which came to stay unannounced and might be expected to leave a precipitously as it had arrived, an indulgence so rare that it prickled the fine hairs of conscience. Or at least, so any Temple-bred Jedi would tell you. Anakin had been resident in that elite and esoteric community for a full six months, and he could confirm the sentiment. _Free time_ was as foreign to the Order's sensibilities as it was to those of a slave; _we come to serve_ was more than a mere mantra, an empty platitude. The very warp and weft of Temple life was strung upon the frame of duty and diligence, perhaps – he dared to think- to the breaking point, a delicate tension that kept his Jedi peers and elders balanced upon the razor edge between near-impossible excellence and nervous breakdown.

Take Master Obi-Wan, for example. What _sane_ person would spend his precious free time – a day, days, almost three days now of unmitigated leisure – upon a project so tedious and dry as the composition of a monograph upon the historical Teth Conflicts? The man only took breaks to eat and to expend tightly bottled energy upon saber play for an hour or two before returning to the grind. It was _weird,_ weirder than all the Jedi koans and rules and unspoken conventions and habits and the rest of it rolled into one. You could feel his _enjoyment_ of the task clearly, too – like a sharp wind coming off the dunes in winter, edged and clean, no grit in its piercing howl, no guttering and twisting currents whipping up dustdevils along the city's outskirts. That was even _weirder._ Anakin's brief experience of school had left him unimpressed, and certainly not inclined to squander his own leisure upon anything resembling _scholastic _ endeavor.

Still, he was in a mood to be tolerant of his mentor's eccentricities, since it afforded him uninterrupted opportunity to work on his own pet project. He had promptly – upon taking possession of the deconstructed droid – converted his small bedchamber to a workshop, pragmatically transferring his sleep-mattress to the balcony where he could lie at night in the warm summer air, watching Coruscant's night traffic flit by and pretending that the Temple was a mighty starship and he a sojourner bound for the stars.

After all, that's what he would be in truth and fact, the moment orders came through. The excitement was enough to make him burst, so it was a good thing he had his protocol unit to worry about.

Upon dismantling the head, he had discovered that the central processor, although intact, had overloaded and performed a self-purge. This was a protective mechanism built in to preserve the hardware should any stress-inducing trauma occur which might otherwise introduce fatal glitches in the AI matrix. In laymen's terms, any properly mannufactured droid would suffer total amnesia in lieu of the cybernetic equivalent of a psychotic break. Galactic law dictated that all droids conform to a prime imperative of _no harm to sentients,_and obviously a severely maladaptive processor couldn't be trusted not to veer off the strictly straight and narrow path…. Anakin had heard rumor of older models - the sort of hyper-expensive personal servants purchased by fabulously powerful aristocrats on far-flung systems- droids which had gone off the deep end before the safety protocols had been introduced by later programmers and taken up a life of maverick crime as hired mercenaries. He even thought he'd met a bounty-hunting droid on Tatooine once, but he'd been too intimidated to make a formal introduction. That was back when he was little. He wouldn't be afraid to ask questions now, since he was a Jedi and all.

Anyway, his droid wasn't one of these ruthless scoundrels . It had clearly been quite distressed at the time of its demise, and so had wiped its main memory banks at the crisis moment, just like they said people wet their pants right before they died in a crash or got trampled by bantha or something, out of sheer terror. Which meant that before he could go any further with the reconstruction project, he would need to upload a new core data set. Fortunately, the Temple archives database had over _three million_ forms of recognized sentient communication stored in its depths. Unable to decide which of these languages would be best suited to the future aide-de-camp of a great Jedi Knight, he had opted for the obvious solution: transfer _all_ of them to his new companion. This of course necessitated building a much more extensive memory crystal matrix to accommodate the surfeit, and then rigging some kind of router system to enable the processor core to make the slow encryption remotely, without having to plug the head into the Archives terminals directly. Which meant a bit of creative hacking around the internal comm web…. It was a good thing Master Obi-Wan had opted to turn a deliberately blind eye to his padawan's tinkering – so long as he was _quiet_ and _constructively occupied._

At this point – three days in – he had successfully initiated the remote upload. The droid's battered and open-plated head sat amid a cyclonic debris-field of clutter, the whirling "brain" at its heart spinning merrily along as it absorbed millennia worth of accrued knowledge : vocabulary, idiom, pronunciation, grammar, syntax, cultural context, literary tradition – at the relative speed of light. The router display estimated a mere fourteen point five seven solar cycles until completion. Imagine – a whole _galaxy's_ history crammed into a single (admittedly artificial) mind in the course of a fortnight.

There wasn't going to be much room left over in the droid's head for anything else, like common sense, but who cared? It was _his,_ and it was going to be _wizard._

"What will you name him?" Master Obi-Wan had inquired, innocently enough.

"Droids get numbers, not names," Anakin had replied, professionally. Everybody knew that. His droid already had a designation, stored somewhere in its labyrinthine operating byways. Once he got it properly booted up and running, it would announce its official numerical appellation. Until then, he merely thought if it as 'the droid.'

The young Jedi lifted one sardonic brow. "If I had a personal idiot savant at my disposal, I should call it _Master Numbskull. _Or something equally lyrical."

Anakin had scrunched his nose and held his tongue. There was just no figuring Obi-Wan when he was in certain moods.

Like right now, for instance.

"Done," the young Knight announced, issuing forth from his own room in triumphal splendor. Not on the outside, of course, but the Force was _shimmering_ around him like a desert mirage. You could tell he was pleased as punch with something or other. "And how pray tell is Master Numbskull progressing?"

"He's _rugged._ I have to wait fourteen days for him to upload his new data core, but I can start on his arms and legs and stuff while I'm waiting."

There might have been the hint of a grimace in his companion's smile, but Anakin chose to ignore it.

"Good. Your droid is chewing his proverbial cud, my article has been submitted to the Temple Archives _and_ accepted for publication in the Mid-Rim Journal of Historical Antiquity, to which august periodical Master Li is an avid subscriber, sub rosa – and all is well in the cosmos."

"Okay." So far as the nine year old padawan was concerned, Master-in-a-good-mood was a fair indicator of all well in the universe as any. He shrugged affably.

The droid's brain whirled onward, frenetically diligent.

"How _many_ languages are you shipping onboard?" Obi-Wan asked, eyes narrowing appraisingly at the disembodied head on its shelf.

"Three million." The blond boy's chest puffed out in pride.

_Three million._ His companion mouthed the words silently, humor softening his hard-lined gaze into a double crescent of amusement. "Do nothing by halves, hm?"

Anakin bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yup. What's the Journal of Whatsit Antiques, anyway?"

"_The_ premier vehicle for dissemination of scholarly research and speculation on galactic pre-expansion period history and archaeology. I happen to have a … _contact_ at the University of Terajon, whence it is published. And I happen to know that the latest issue will be delivered to Master Li's 'pad within the next tenday, replete with a feature piece vindicating Teth Imperial Chronicler Ruus T'chello's accuracy and reliability. The article is an impeccably well-documented, _precise, _logical, and eloquent exposition by one Professor Dextrus Jetsterossi."

"Huh? Mister Dex writes stuff like _that?"_

"It is a nom-de-plume, Padawan. The composition is my own, but a Jedi craves not literary accolades."

"But… then how come you would _write_ it at all?"

"The cause of truth must sometimes take precedence over all else."

"Yeah, but… when I wanted to make _my_ point to Ferus Olin, you said peace was more important and I shouldn't pursue it. So shouldn't you just let Master Li think what he likes and keep the peace?"

"There is no true peace under the aegis of ignorance. Hence the words of Master Seva: _ accord built upon false understanding is a house with a cracked foundation."_

"Oh." Anakin scratched his head. "So… I'm right about making Ferus see the truth."

Obi-Wan's arms crossed over his chest. A faint line appeared between his brows. "The two cases are completely different, young one."

"How?"

The line deepened. "Because I am not making my argument by means of fisticuffs."

Unsatisfied, his apprentice stood firm. "Yeah, but you and Master Li enjoy smacking each other around with words even better. So really…."

"So _really,"_ the young Jedi interposed, "It would behoove one who does not wish to be implicated in a similar detrimental verbal exchange to _desist_ before his master's patience expires."

"So I should let you win the argument because I'm not as old and wise as you?" Anakin peered up at his mentor, dubiously. "'Cause Master Li is technically older and wiser than _you, _so…."

Obi-Wan appeared to bite back his next retort. "Why do I have the feeling the Force is mocking me?" he queried, of nobody in particular – or else the universe in general.

"…Master?"

The issue was fated to remain unresolved, for at this very moment the young Knight's commlink chimed, a tiny bell note spreading like a fine ripple in the Force, heralding a _summons_ and a _sending forth._

"It's the Council!" Anakin yelped, dancing in place. "We're going on a mission! I knew it!"

* * *

It took the Council a _choobazzi_ long time to get around to actually sending them anywhere, in Anakin's considered opinion. The much-anticipated meeting in the serene chamber atop the Temple's southern spire lasted a full two hours, by which time the boy's stomach was growling, his ears were buzzing, and nothing much had been _accomplished._ He risked a covert upward glance at his imperturbable mentor, only to find with dismay that Obi-Wan gave no indication of noticing the passing time, or the fact that midday meal had come and gone without so much as a tragic fanfare for wasted opportunity.

The older Jedi – a half dozen Councilors and the young Knight – were beating a dead bantha to death. Travel accommodations, hyperspace routes, letters of introduction, something about _facsimile _ identification documents, diplomatic protocols, blah blah blah… the mission wasn't going to amount to much, judging by the tedious details surrounding its inception. He had gathered – before the obscuring fog of combined hunger and ennui had set in – that they were being dispatched to some far-flung sector and that this would involve space travel. This being his principal stake in the matter, he had momentarily tuned out to daydream about his protocol unit and the imaginary starfighter he was building in his head – sort of a podracer on a grand scale. With gold and black stripes.

This had been a mistake, because when his attention wandered back to center, mostly at the behest of a sharp prod between the shoulder blades from Obi-Wan , the discussion had meandered far afield and got itself mired in a bog of minutiae. He smothered a yawn and tried to look the part of a proper Jedi padawan, because he knew Obi-Wan would have his skin if he didn't keep his spine ramrod straight, his hands folded, and his eyes riveted forward-facing.

Master Windu was speaking, hooded eyes glinting with a severely banked fire. "I speak for all the Council, I believe, when I say that we place our trust in your utmost _discretion."_

Master Obi-Wan's bow was graceful, and laced with irony. "I shall go nowhere, say nothing, and accomplish even less."

Old Yoda grunted, ears waggling. "Go with the Force, then. To hear from you at first opportunity, we expect."

"Yes, Master."

Anakin bowed again when his teacher did, mimicking the young Knight's deliberate motion and then tailing him out the door, mindful not to tread on his cloak hem as he had on that _one_ intensely mortifying occasion.

In the burnished lift, behind sealed doors, he released a pent breath. "Whew. I'm starving, Master. And _where_ are we going again?"

Obi-Wan cocked a brow. "Were you not being mindful? _Nowhere."_

"I'm not a baby!" the frustrated padawan retorted. "You just said that 'cause it's a big _chupa-booki_ secret. Where exactly are we going, really?"

But you could never get anywhere with Obi-Wan by _pushing._

"To the refectory," came the blithe non-answer. "I thought you were _starving."_


	9. Chapter 9

**Legacy VI**

* * *

_**Chapter 9: Departure**_

"This catastrophe will be _entirely _eliminated before we leave," Obi-Wan ordered, casting a critical eye over his apprentice's chaotic bedchamber, the piles of scraps and clutter, the strewn micro tools, the clumps of discarded wiring and overloaded circuit board.

Anakin twisted his mouth in dismay. "Yes, Master."

"In the meanwhile…" A sweep of one hand and a nudge of the Force summarily cleared the small meditation cushion of its present occupants. The young Jedi deposited a compact travel case upon the surface. "Packing. First rule: _one_ bag."

"That's not much space," his padawan lamented, surreptitiously eyeing the half-finished cybernetics projects scattered about his ersatz workshop.

"Second rule: _nothing_ frivolous."

The boy scratched at the base of his braid, squirming on the spot.

Obi-Wan pointed to the bag. "Only the bare necessities. Extra ration pellets, grooming kit, med supplies, and two changes of clothing. _Including_ underthings."

"But – "

"We are _not_ reengaging this weary topic, Padawan."

Anakin scowled. "Yes, Master."

"Third rule: the indispensable remains on your person." The young Knight indicated his belt pouches. "Comm link, holo disk,memory crystal, cable launcher, rebreather, emergency rations, medkit, universal power cell, identity documents, _money."_

"And 'saber!" his enthusiastic protégé added.

"This weapon is a Jedi's _life._ It _never_ leaves his possession."

"I wish I had one…. Can I have a blaster instead? It could come in handy, Master."

"No. But I picked up an extra cable and rebreather for you from the quartermaster. You can bring your microtools. Just keep the magnetocron away from your commlink."

"I'm not a _baby,"_ the youngling snorted, happily tucking his new acquisitions into his own new pouches, like a seasoned Jedi accustomed to field missions. "So this is the _really_ important stuff."

"Yes. If an emergency arises, we should be able to manage quite well with only what we carry. A Jedi relies upon the Force and instinct, not extraneous equipment."

"Or spare underpants," Anakin pointed out, academically. "Those stay in the bag."

One of Obi-Wan's brows arched sharply upward. "Survival," he said, pointing to his 'saber and belt. "_Civility."_ He indicated the bag's contents. "There is a distinction, but it is a _fine_ one."

The padawan folded his arms, in unconscious imitation of his mentor, and pressed his mouth into a thin line of disapproval.

"Rule four: if you pack sloppily, you will do it again. And again. And again. Until it is done properly." A short pause. "And I decide what is _proper."_

The boy sighed theatrically. "…Yes, Master. And what about my droid head? I can't just leave him here… he's still uploading his languages."

Obi-Wan frowned. "We can't take him with us, either."

"Well, then…. Maybe Master Qui-Gon sir could watch him while I'm gone?"

The young Jedi almost smiled, though his student found it difficult to be sure. "I am certain Master Qui-Gon would be willing to negotiate terms of adoption."

* * *

"Whoa… is that gonna be our ship?" Anakin's finger drew a wavering circle in the projection field's shimmering translucent display.

His companion squinted at the printed specs beside the schematic diagram. "Yes. The Council has already requisitioned it for our use. Civilian passenger shuttle manufactured on Corellia… ten years' service… full systems check, new fuel core installed here in the Temple… no distinguishing marks on the hull… hyperdrive standard, sublights standard…. Let's see…"

"It's not very big. Or fast."

"It does not need to be. We are merchants of modest means and unassuming prospects, if you recall. But the engineers here have made some modifications. As a precaution."

The boy scooted his seat closer to the data terminal's forward edge. "I still don't get the whole merchant thing. Why do we have to pretend to be somebody else? Why can't we just be Jedi?"

Obi-Wan continued scanning the vessel specifications. "Because there is to be no _official_ Republic presence in the sector. We are making a thorough reconnaissance _ahead_ of the sanctioned delegation."

Anakin kicked his legs idly, swinging booted feet beneath the desk. "Sounds boring."

"We should be so lucky." The young Knight flicked the holo-display to another field, magnifying the resultant astro-map until the hyper-routes stood out in glittering red ribbons and webs. "In my experience, intelligence missions seldom conform to expectation."

"I dunno. _Gathering information_ just doesn't seem like a very _exciting_ job."

"Oh?" Obi-Wan's mouth quirked upward at one corner. "Would you rather be commissioned to explore a gundark's nest, or to _go see what's over that next hill?"_

"I'd rather –oh…. Huh." The padawan's despondent expression slowly melted into a sly grin. "There could be _anything_ over that hill. Even something really nasty,"

"Oh, assuredly something nasty. Or worse." Obi-Wan shut down the computer terminal and stood, cloak cascading to the floor in fluid drapes. "We'll eat before we visit the Halls."

* * *

"Outer Rim?" Senior Healer Vokara Che murmured, delicate indigo brows contracted as she surveyed the contents of Obi-Wan's medkit. "…or further?"

"Into territory roughly comprised by the ancient Teth empire, yes."

"Hm." Lekku undulating softly, the Twi'Lek consulted her datapad, then selected one or two vials from the pharmacist droid's open chest cavity. "Epidemiology data is unreliable that far out… I can only make an educated guess about pathogens common in the sector… _you_ will probably fare well enough—you've acquired extensive immunities in the course of your travles. But Anakin here…"

"I'm healthy!" the padawan asserted, resentfully.

Vokara Che _tsked_ under her breath at the unseemly outburst. "Our bodies, young one, exist in equilibrium with our environment. A Jedi is at home in the universe at large, but _biodynamically_ this takes many years to achieve. Do not underestimate the complexity of 'gross matter.'"

Deflated, the boy hunched in his chair and watched the healer restock their compact kits with antidotes and countermeasures for obscure diseases and infections. He wrinkled his nose, considering the formidable array of potential maladies this precaution seemed to suggest, then glanced up to catch his mentor's amused expression.

"Don't fret," the young Knight advised him. "If none of Master Che's voodoo works, we can always amputate."

"No _way,"_ the boy objected, protectively folding his limbs inward. "I don't want any _schuzzo_ prosthetics."

"Why not?" came the flippant retort. "You could tinker with _yourself_ instead of mucking about with droid scraps for a hobby."

"_Really, _ Kenobi,_"_ the healer cut in, sharply.

"…My apologies, Master Che."

Vokara's amber eyes narrowed as she scanned over the records database. "Protocol dictates that you both complete a standard physical before I clear you for active duty."

"Ah.. but we are not _on_ active duty, technically. You won't find our names on the roster, anyhow. So the protocol doesn't apply. From a certain point of view."

"That's right! I'm perfectly healthy!" Anakin jumped in. "And so's Master Obi-Wan."

"Hale and hearty as a pair of _koora_ roaches," the young Knight elaborated, displaying both dimples to most charismatic effect. "No need to waste any time violating our basic dignities. I'm sure you have higher priority prisoners who demand your attention."

"Fine," his opponent ceded. "But when you return to the Core, you _will_ submit to regulations."

"_Submit_ is such an uncivilized word," Obi-Wan groused.

"Impossible man," the healer muttered, sotto voce, as she ushered them out.

* * *

"I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of the trust placed in me," Qui-Gon Jinn assured his guests, the fine smile lines about his eyes deepening as he dipped his head.

Anakin beamed happily, fidgeting in place upon his assigned meditation cushion; Obi-Wan merely twitched one brow upward, the merest hint of amusement securely restrained by decades' discipline.

"In return," the Jedi master continued, gravely setting the disembodied droid head and the mandrangea bean seedling upon a small inset shelf, like two primitive household idols, "I will ask only one favor from each of you ."

"Whatever you want," the young padawan promised, without hesitation.

"Your first fatal error," his mentor quipped, dryly.

The laugh held checked within the Force's depths tugged briefly at one corner of the tall man's mouth. "Indeed," he concurred. " I might have demanded a dangerous or illegal souvenir."

"I would get it for you anyway, Master Qui-Gon sir," the boy insisted. "Really."

Obi-Wan raised one cautionary hand. "We are _not_ bringing home any pathetic life forms. Especially the sort with tentacles."

"Aww. But, – "

"No _buts._ Be guided by me in this: if Master Qui-Gon wishes to augment his collection of monstrosities, he shan't find ready accomplices in us."

The subject of this jest thrust both thumbs through his belt. "_That _depends on your point of view."

Anakin squinted at his older companions, bemusedly, sensing but not quite comprehending the jest tossed between his elders like a younglings' hover-ball.

"I am prepared to stand firm on this resolution, Master. By force of arms if need be. No souvenirs."

Qui-Gon shrugged, eyes dancing. "…Alas."

"But whatever else you want," the boy interposed, eager to assuage such undeserved disappointment.

Demeanor sobering, the senior Jedi squatted down, bringing himself level with his young visitor. "Promise me, Anakin," he said. "You will listen to your master. Be mindful, and obey. Even when you do not understand. Your safety – your life, or the lives of others – may depend on it."

The boy's sapphire eyes widened, liquid pools opening onto startling depths. He nodded. "I will."

But Qui-Gon grasped him by either shoulder, leaning forward earnestly. "Give me your word of honor."

"Okay. I _promise_. "

Satisfied, the tall man turned to his own former apprentice. "And Obi-Wan – "

"I will watch over him. And do honor to your teachings, Master. And keep my focus in the present moment. And be mindful of the Living Force."

Qui-Gon's mouth quirked into a bittersweet smile. "I doubt none of these things. But there is something more."

Bemusement flitted over the young Knight's features, but he merely raised his brows in expectation.

Rocking back on his heels, the senior Jedi exhaled. "You have much wisdom – all the paltry share of it I could bestow, and much gained through your own striving. Do not be afraid to acquire more."

Obi-Wan frowned slightly. "Why would I – "

"How can a cup which overflows be filled yet further?"

A soft shake of the head.

Qui-Gon nodded, silently , and stood. His companions followed suit, Anakin falling into place beside his teacher with the automatic reflex of habit.

"You should go. The transport is waiting, I am sure."

"Anakin. Go ahead to the hangar bay and check the flight computer. I shall be there shortly."

"Yes, Master!" The boy nearly skidded across the threshold in his enthusiasm for the task. "Don't worry – I know _exactly _what I'm doing."

When they were afforded a moment of privacy, Qui-Gon laid one hand on his friend's shoulder. "Promise me."

"Master… you needn't cluck over us like a brooding thranctill hen."

The tall man's eyes flickered with a time-mellowed humor. "You both are _very_ young, from my point of view."

"It's not my first time away from home, Qui-Gon… but I give you my word."

"Good boy." With a last affectionate squeeze, the Jedi master released his companion, gesturing toward the door. "Wisdom and the wide world await."

They made a deep bow, one to another, and parted with the traditional words of benediction resonating inaudibly, profoundly between them.

_May the Force be with you._

* * *

Anakin was sitting demurely at the copilot's station when Obi-Wan stepped into the cockpit.

"Well," the mission leader remarked, casually dispensing with his cloak and tossing it onto the miniscule inset acceleration couch to his left. "Why don't you take the helm?"

His padawan leapt from his place as though electrified. "Really?"

"No. I entertain myself by spouting facetious drivel."

The boy edged warily into the pilot's seat, a perplexed glimmer in his clear blue eyes. "Well…. sometimes you _do, _Master. With respect."

"Oh?" A dangerous chuckle.

"Yeah, like when you're irritated on the inside you say the opposite of what you mean and stuff, and sometimes if Master Qui-Gon is teasing you , or if you're piloting in a crowded district."

The young Knight's brows rose, in surprise. "So you do pay attention."

Anakin cast him a wounded look. "I pay attention! Hey – what's this light for?"

"I thought you paid attention. Did you not learn the console layout in basic piloting class?"

"That was for babies. It was sooo boring. I _tried_ to focus but I just _couldn't_."

"Hm. That signal means the docking pad is in motion. Wait until we are clear of the hangar doors before you lift off. And thrusters on half, please. Coruscant air traffic control are sticklers for the rules."

The massive pad extended past the ivory walls like some gargoylish tongue giving the raspberry to all below, cool and 'cycled interior giving way in an abrupt blink to the glare and dizzying buzz of the city-planet's skyscape.

"Here we go," Anakin solemnly intoned, engaging the repulsors and lifting the unprepossessing shuttle off its perch and into the free-fly zone about the Temple precinct.

Obi-Wan entered their atmospheric exit trajectory into the navcomp and waited for confirmation. Master and apprentice, away on a mission… the roles were familiar as breathing, yet jarringly _new,_ untried. He discreetly watched his padawan navigate upward through the frenetic airlanes, tongue caught between his teeth and small chin jutting forward in determination, the absurdly short learner's braid swinging like miniature pendulum by his ear.

Blue softened to fading azure and then inky indigo, cloudless dome melting into nebula-stained cosmos, the glittering city into star-fretted heavens. Planets and suns spread above them in endless diaspora, the Force itself seeming to uncoil into the boundless cradle of night.

_Here we go, _ indeed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Legacy VI**

* * *

_**Chapter 10: Going Native**_

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Master – we're here!"

The pellucid Force trembled and broke into shards and ripples beneath the treble-pitched assault of Anakin's boyish excitement, bringing Obi-Wan out of his meditative trance like a whip-crack.

"Nng," the victim of this unwitting discourtesy complained, blinking in the cockpit's dim blue light.

"The navcomp says two minutes till reversion – can I do it, please? I've never dumped a ship out before, I'm sure I can do it real easy and smooth, please Master?"

His companion ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the console display. "Very well," he agreed, discreetly snugging his crash harness into place. "Have at it."

"Wizard," the boy breathed, hunching over the helm and clamping a pink tongue tip between his front teeth. "This is no problem. I've totally got this."

Obi-Wan suppressed a hard hiccup – irksome side effect of interrupted meditation – and raised both brows. The navcomp quietly ticked off the moments until calculated reversion and then signaled _ready._

"Now," the padawan announced, unnecessarily, and gave the hyperdrive alternator shift a manful tug. The shuttle bucked and shuddered beneath them, groaning at every seam.

"Stabilizers," the young Knight offered, one hand instinctively tightening on the bulkhead mooring-post.

"Oh yeah." A few swift adjustments later, and the ship breathed a sigh of relief – then seemed to plummet upward and roll wildly, smears of formless colour snapping into points of cartwheeling light, a web of smearing nebula, and a roiling sea of inky void.

"Yipppeeeeeeee!" its underaged pilot shrieked.

"_Grav compasss,"_ his less elated passenger barked, reaching forward to make the needed compensation himself. The feckless vessel , flung like spinning shrapnel from the hyperlane's apogee, gently slowed and righted itself, eventually swinging into position with bows and stern aligned along the nearest star's gravitational well.

Anakin giggled and flopped back in his seat, well satisfied with the performance. "Whew," he sighed, beaming up at his mentor. "That was kinda wild. But I did it."

"With room for improvement," Obi-Wan remarked, clamping down on a second hiccup, lest it transform into something queasier. "You did well, Padawan….. I'll take the helm now."

Some things required a _steady_ hand, after all.

* * *

"Whoa…" Anakin breathed, snub nose practically pressed against the viewport's convex curve. "What kinda place is this?"

The quadruple tiered pedestrian arcades rose before them, layer upon scintillating, neonium decked layer – a phantasmagoric architecture of transparisteel and sleek plastoids seemingly riveted and buttressed by gaudery. As their shuttle cruised upward toward the docking levels, a vast billboard rose to eyelevel like a bloated sun breaking its own artificial horizon.

"You-topia," the mesmerized padawan sounded out, scribing the shifting aurebesh figures with one finger. "Huh?"

Obi-Wan's smile was tight with repressed contempt. "Never will you find a more despicable hive of ostentation, egoism, avarice, and waste. Welcome to the most expansive shopping center this side of the Hygerrian."

Anakin's jaw gaped as they navigated their way into the main structure, revealing an inner honeycomb of glittering platforms and opulent facades, a vast cave dripping with inticement, with wares form a thousand systems. Its open mouth swallowed their miniscule vessel and drew them into its own resplendent microcosm.

"Don't worry about the navigation," the young Jedi advised his awestruck apprentice. "Tractors will bring us in."

"But…. What are we doing here?" the boy squeaked.

"Shopping." Obi-Wan folded both arms over his chest and leaned back, regarding their surroundings with both brows hovering upward disdainfully.

His padawan flopped back in his own chair, scowling. "But why here?"

"Why not? Besides, it's tariff free."

"But Jedi never pay – "

"Anakin. We are _not_ Jedi here. Remember? We need to acquire some marketable goods if we are to pose as merchants. "

"Okay, but – "

A raised hand stemmed the tidal wave of curiosity. "This is where you stop asking questions. Follow me, keep your wits about you, and _learn."_

* * *

The valet droid executed an obsequious bow. "Please present this magnetocode at any valid docking kiosk and our friendly staff will retrieve your vessel."

"Here." Obi-Wan deposited the device in his padawan's outstretched hand. "I'm appointing you Transportation Chancellor."

"Is that like a promotion?" Anakin inquired, trotting to keep pace as they headed down the polished pedestrian bridgeway.

The young Jedi issued a gentle snort. "You have much to learn… let's see now." They paused beneath a sculptured archway. A grand courtyard lay ahead, domed in crystalline panes reflecting the starscape beyond. Upon every side stretched corridors echoing with the throngs of shoppers and the tinny cacophony of synthmusic. A heady musk of competing odors, alluring yet chaotically mingled, assaulted their nostrils.

"E'chuta," the younger of the pair muttered, wide-eyed.

A scantily clad PArthusian sashayed past on the arm of her escort, taking a moment to appraise the strangers with a lingering glance and a long wink. Anakin's gaze trailed after her, puzzled and intrigued.

"Uh, Master?"

"Focus."

"Yeah but how come she was thinking about _eating_ you?"

"Focus, Anakin." Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the vast labyrinth of shops, the grav lifts and moving stairways to upper and lower levels, the stalactite hover-chandeliers pendant above them. "We need information."

Doggedly jogging alongside, his young companion voiced another question weighing heavily on his mind. "Can we even _afford_ to shop here?"

This earned him a sardonic chuckle. "We are _loaded, _my young friend, if you will pardon the colloquialism."

An automated stairway wafted them above the main plaza, toward a soaring mezzanine lined with pulsing crystal colonnades. Anakin leaned against the siderail, staring out over the dizzying spectacle below. "Oh…. I've never had any money, really. "

"Nor have I," his mentor pointed out. "But if I am called upon to squander the Order's resources, I intend to execute my duty with all due diligence."

This pronouncement was met with a startled look swiftly overshadowed by a grin; the smile was momentarily mirrored in the young Knight's face before he reimposed his grave demeanor.

"Here we are," he announced as they stepped out into the upper level foyer. "Welcome to Youtopia."

* * *

Anakin balked visibly upon the threshold, snub nose wrinkling in disgust. "Why are we going into a _beauty parlor?"_

"Because there is no more facile or efficient way to gather information."

"I don't get it… and this place is _schuzzo."_

The young Knight shucked off his cloak and deposited it in his bemused padawans' arms. "_I_ will brave the gundark's den," he reassured the dubious boy. "You need merely wait it out in the reception area." A quick, assessing look at the posh appointments of the lounge followed. "And perhaps you should not pry too deeply into those magazines, either."

Thus pointed in the direction of fascinating entertainment, the boy meekly accepted his fate and plopped into one of the overstuffed pod chairs. "Yes, Master."

On cue, a gaily bedecked and decidedly quadrubrachial hairdresser made his appearance in the interior doorway, shoving aside the glittering bead curtain with two appendages while the other two traced almost dainty circles of delight in mid-air. "Welcome, welcome, welcome," this person greeted the newcomer in unctuous tones. "And how may we help you today?"

The young Jedi drew in a deep centering breath. "Just a trim," he replied, politely, acutely aware of his apprentice's silently sniggering appraisal of the situation.

"Oh dear, oh my yes yes yes," the barber tittered, all four hands splaying out in an exaggerated gesture of horror. "We _are_ starting to look a tad… scruffy around the edges. Come this way, please… I will _transform_ you, I promise."

With a single fulminating glare over one shoulder – sufficiently strident to remind his protégé that the brand of 'scruffy' under consideration was the sort that carried a _lightsaber- _ Obi-Wan meekly followed his self-appointed savior into the perfumed and powdered inner sanctum, imploring the Force never to allow rumor of this adventure to reach Garen Muln or Feld Spruu's ears.

* * *

Upon closer inspection, Anakin found the magazines to be far less enticing than Obi-Wan's brusque proscription would seem to suggest. They contained not a scrap of mechanical schema or stats – their virtual holo-pages were filed with a dreary procession of advertisements for age-defying cream, absurdly embellished undergarments and expensive colognes, or else long-winded reviews of restaurants and theatrical programmes to be found in the local sector. More ennui-inspiring yet were the advice columns on ways to "triple your pleasure" and the odd holos of various species in abstruse gymnastic positions. All in all, a colossal waste of time. He tossed the last of his hefty pile down upon a side table with a blend of guilt at having disobeyed – however minor an injunction – and pique at having reaped no memorable reward for having done so.

Dropping out of hyperspace had been _wizard…_ but this next phase of the mission was proving anticlimactic. How many _hours_ did it take to get a stupid haircut, anyway? When they did it back in quarters on Coruscant it was about a five minute operation all told, including clean up.

He briefly entertained the dark suspicion that something _untoward _had occurred to his teacher - but then, he could distinctly _feel_ Obi-Wan's presence in the Force: steady like a candle flame, with just the slightest ruffling about the edges, a subtle irritation flickering in the margins.

So he wasn't going to have to launch a rescue operation. More the pity.

He was just on the brink of _making_ a reason to launch a rescue operation, when the object of said rescue managed to extricate himself from trouble, pushing through the chintzy bead curtain and reappearing in the anteroom, shorn and shaved and redolent of some sweet-spicy grooming scent from one of the magazines. Anakin wrinkled his nose and regarded the outcome with wide eyes.

On Tatooine, only really _hoopachi_ ootmian got themselves fancied up like that. It was an invitation to be mugged and/or kidnapped for sale on the upscale slave market.

The young Jedi stabbed a shiv-like glance sideways in his direction, bringing this idle train of thought up short. "The answer to your question, _young one,_ is yes. I have all the information we need. … And a great quantity in excess of that, as well."

That hadn't been Anakin's question but he had the sense not to scruple over trivialities, at least this time. He opted to make another inquiry weighing on his mind. "I still don't get why _this_ is the best place to find out stuff."

"Hairdressers are always the best purveyors of gossip, all across the galaxy. Second only to the ranks of junior padawans at the Temple, and Master Qui-Gon, of course."

"Oh." They headed down the echoing concourse toward a set of decorative, counterweighted lift platforms. "So… how does that help our mission?"

Obi-Wan's mouth quirked at one corner and his brows lifted. "It would appear, based on local hearsay about the most frequented shipping lanes out here, that we need to make ourselves as tempting a target as possible for pirates."

* * *

An hour later, they meandered back toward the docking structure, each propelling a laden hover-palette before him.

"That was a lot of moolasa for _empty_ crates," Anakin observed, frowning as the pressure seal security cartons loaded on his palette wobbled in place. "… And people are staring at us."

His companion paced ahead, unperturbed. "We appear to be departing with roughly half a billion credits worth of rare jewels or aurodium," he pointed out. "Hopefully a scout or two is observing us at this very moment. With any luck, we'll be attacked within the first forty parsecs out."

"I don't think pirates are gonna be too happy when they find this stuff is all empty, Master."

A shrug of nonchalance met this objection. "I only aim to lure them in, not make them happy. We will review procedures for receiving boarders once we're under way. "

Anakin pouted visibly. "I could _fight_ if you let me have a 'saber. Or a blaster, even."

"And you won't be laying hands on either until you prove you can follow orders _precisely._ This isn't a Temple scholum exercise."

"I _know."_ The padawan gave his hover-trolley a truculent extra kick with one foot, sending it skimming ahead of him on silent repulsors. "I just wish you would let me _show_ you what I can do."

They halted at the valet parking kiosk. "That, my friend, will happen before you know it. If Master Qui-Gon were here, he would counsel patience."

The boy folded his arms across his chest, rumpling the new Corellian cut long tunic with its ostentatious breastpockets and double stitch embroidery over both shoulders. "Patience," he grumbled in exasperation.

"I on the other hand will settle for mere _quiet,"_ his mentor quipped, tucking the pommel of his 'saber beneath a coat flap and smoothing his own embroidered long vest. "Since we are on the topic of precious commodities."

Anakin merely rolled his eyes and tried to focus on more positive thoughts.

For one thing, they were going to get attacked by pirates – and surely _that_ would be where the fun began.


End file.
